Sei
by Sarehptar
Summary: Deidara microfics. AU, mild BL, violence, repetitive use of the word 'Un,' and spoilers for the manga are inevitable.
1. Sei

Sei  
Microfic by Sarehptar 

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"Brat, where are you?" Sasori was calling from across the field. Always so friendly, his partner. The pale blond "brat" didn't stir, even his soft cobalt eyes didn't waver in their watching. _The sky is so blue today._ A few shimmering clouds fluttered wistlessly in the corner of his vision and he smiled gently, thoughtlessly. _Poor things, having to go wherever the wind drags them.  
_  
The sun had been high overhead for what seemed like hours now; the dirt beneath him was warm and welcoming, promising a soft bed for the moment and smudges on his black clothes later. A breeze darted up from the cliff edge behind them, sweeping the sun-drenched brown earth about in tiny eddies that danced with the edges of his open, wide-spread cloak. The grin on his face grew inexorably larger, he toyed with the ring on his index finger like a widow worrying her wedding band. _The sky is so blue today._ He turned slightly away from the calls of his somber partner. The forbidden scroll they'd been told to take pressed coldly into his hip, and mewling sleepily in displeasure, the pale-skinned ninja turned onto his other side.

The warmth and beat of the earth beneath him was being ruined by Sasori's insistent calling. He toyed with the ring--his headband seemed to collect the heat of the sun and made his forehead unbearably hot. Smile weakening a little, he sat up, allowing his coat to slip haphazardly off his shoulders. He didn't feel like going back to Rei-sama(1) and the dark cave. He didn't feel like having to explain why he'd been ignoring Sasori all day. He didn't feel like talking to anyone. The heat that had been pushing his endorphines moments ago now seemed sticky and unwelcome. Clambering to his feet, he tore his eyes off the blue expanse and glanced pointedly at his partner.

Sasori knew the look and growled in frustration. Unwilling to exert the energy to stop him, the Suna ninja watched his young blond companion spit out an tiny bird figurine. The warm blossom of Chakra made the sunrays seem dull for a moment, but then that feeling too subsided. The bird flapped its enormous earthy wings once and leapt into the sky.

The smile slid back onto Deidara's face as he undid the scarlet tie that kept his hair in a high ponytail. The earth wheeled far beneath him, and he grinned at Sasori's face, craned upward to glare at him. He trusted his partner would collect the things he'd left behind. The bird sped up, and a quiet laugh bubbled out of him at the pleasant feeling of wind playing in the straw strands at the nape of his neck. The cool breeze pulled his bangs wildly across his bare forehead and his dark blue undershirt flapped ridiculously, pulling air across his pale skin. Delicately, he wrapped his undecorated fingers around the bird's crest. On the ground below, Sasori's hand darted out from beneath his Akatsuki cloak to fold Deidara's own black and red fabric.

The clouds had faded away, torn apart by the high cold wind, and Deidara smiled sadly for the last remenants of their once stark forms. _Poor things, having to go wherever the wind drags them._ Sasori untied the knot his young partner had left in dark fabric of his hitai-ate, and let the scarred metal plate fall precariously on top of the messy cloak bundle. The Scorpion ninja reached down into the dirt and dusted off Deidara's crimson ring, scowling at how knicked the delicate silver was.

The bird dove suddenly, playing in its own right--enjoying its freedom to fly where it could. Deidara grinned happily as the creature's sharp turns tore the breath from his mouth. He liked the lightness of it all; the wind in places it rarely touched, the loss of the weight that normally pressed heavily on him. He didn't need those things here. Ninja... Akatsuki... Those were labels for people who touched the ground. The sun shone dully on the clay feathers of the bird, and Sasori looked so small below them. Flying! Deidara was flying; just Deidara: a nineteen year old boy with a bright smile, soft eyes and no one to call him back down.

_The sky is so blue today._

_

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_

Author's Notes: The first in a ongoing set of microfics. Deidara is my newest Naruto obsession, and there is NOT enough fanfiction about him. I hope you enjoyed--Reviews make me very happy! 

(1) -- The leader of Akatsuki; I called him by the Kanji on his ring, Rei.


	2. Little

Little  
Microfic by Sarehptar

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The air was chilly, he realized with a dull smile. Colder than normal actually, but he shrugged it off. Why was it always little things like that that caught his attention? Soft blue eyes slid, half-lidded, to his pale hands, resting complacently in his own lap. The delicate purple curves of his fingernails clashed badly with the overly bright scarlet threads of a cloud on his cloak.

Sighing darkly, the young man closed his single visible eye and leaned back against the rough stone behind him. The stiff crimson tie in his straw blond hair strained against the earth, and he sighed again, just to hear the whispery echo it made inside the enormous and lifeless room. He liked the sound--it seemed like the opening note of a pretty, sad song. Sasori would have told him to close his mouth, and the thought sparked a childish defiance. There was nobody around, he didn't have to be quiet. The missing-nin sighed breathily again, and then hummed a half beat. Instantly the music seemed to make the dark parts of the room, on the fringes of his sight, a little warmer. Would anyone else have noticed it, the little brightening of the room? He brushed a pale hand through his bangs and hummed another note. No, he shook his head softly, savouring the pressure of the rough stone against his scalp, none of his comrades would notice -or care for- something so small.

Thoughtlessly, he ran a pale finger across the soft lips in his palm. The gentle curving smile in his hand didn't mirror the stormy look on his face. He hummed again, quietly, just in case the others were not as asleep as they were supposed to be, let the warm echo wash back across his eyes. He could feel it physically, like stepping close to a fire in winter. He laughed once, almost silently, at himself--had he always been this easy to amuse? A little sound could make him feel at ease in a nest of murderers? Yes, he snickered again, the smallest things could often do the seemingly impossible.

It was because of the art, he decided. He noticed the small things because that was what he needed to notice--the tiniest detail, the most delicate flaw... At times, he wondered if he could see anything other than the most minute of mistakes. It made him a genius; it gave him a weakness. A little of the warmth of the broken song drained away, the dark edges of the cave crept the barest inch closer. The grand scheme of things--the things his comrades involved themselves in; achieving strength, perfection... Even long term goals had never concerned him. He needed them, he needed Sasori most, to direct him, to lead him through the mire of big things down to the details, where he belonged. The darkness seemed too close, and the pale Iwa ninja hummed again just to drive it away. He belonged in the details none of them could see.

Somewhere outside the cave an animal howled, and he shifted again, ignoring the sharp pressing of a rock along his spine. He didn't like the nighttime very much--it was hard to see, hard to grasp the grittiness of life that sunlight made real. It was hard to feel safe at night, when only the big things mattered. For a moment, his hands shifted lifelessly in his lap, and he wished that he could be more like Sasori--to feel the need for planning, the stability that comes from knowing what you want... He wanted to be more like Itachi--to never focus on what had been done wrong, the ability to notice failure and tactfully ignore it... For a moment, he wanted that more than any feeling of warm fires or song. The darkness crept back, sneakily, quickly, and though the pale ninja tried his hardest to ignore the detail, he felt the tiniest, most minute creeping of the coldness.

Running a finger jerkily over the gentle curving smile in his hand, he sighed again. This time it lacked its previous musicality--it didn't echo, and the darkness crept closer. Why had he even bothered wishing for what was big? He felt the delicate drop of the temperature that none of the others would notice and ran his blond head across the jagged rock wall. Why had he even bothered?

He belonged with the little things.

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	3. Close

Close  
Microfic by Sarehptar

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Deidara loved everything about it: the adventure, the rush, the protection... The freedom especially. He wanted even more of it. That's why he stayed with them, he knew--they could give him things no one else could. They could give him battles strong enough to stretch his own unique potential, missions secret enough to set his heart beating painfully against his chest, fear enough to make his palms taste sweaty. He loved it--the extremes to which Akatsuki pushed him.

He smiled at his reflection in the cup of dark coffee in his hand. The grin looked a little weary, a little too wide to be innocent. He shook the cup to drive away the image; it left a bad taste in his mouth. Why look too closely at things like that? He'd been given so much in exchange. The bitter coffee scalded the sensitive edges of his tongue, and the pale missing-nin cringed invisibly.

How many other people could say they got to fight with the Kazekage? The young man's shoulders doubled up, the edge of his dark cloak danced softly against his cheek, rounded in stifled laughter. How many could say they'd won? His straw-like hair flicked back and forth like wheat in the wind, and the gentle breeze felt good against his bare neck; a delightful contrast to the burning cup in his hand. Contrast--he knew all about it. How many of the other members were scoffed at constantly in battle? An old wound; he shoved the thought away quickly. There were advantages to being young and pretty.

Akatsuki... Even the name screamed for his attention, painting images in his head that his hands burned to scuplt, to draw, to write... Akatsuki was like one perfected artwork -a masterpiece- and he had to be part of it. He had to--had to follow orders, had to destory his art for a just cause (other's standpoints really had no relevance anymore), had to enjoy the whispered meetings, the dark rooms, the glares of suspicion, the fear of being caught... He had to take it all. His reflection in the cup was a twisted and worn face--wise to the world and death. He shook the cup again. It was worth it; Akatsuki was worth it--it made him free, didn't it?

Free to fight and kill whomever...he was told to. Free to fly and enjoy wide skies...if he didn't mind risking ANBU capture. The breeze had died, the back of his neck was starting to feel sticky. He shifted slightly, undid another hook in the collar of his cloak, and sighed lightly to his rippling reflection. He was free. Just because he couldn't go where he pleased, see who he wanted, act as he would like, enjoy as himself as he could... He was free--he had the art and the ninjutsu like he'd never had it before. He had it, why question what he was being made to do with it?

He had himself, his art, the rush of battle, the sky when he wanted it. He had the feeling of clay in hands, the malable marble that made him a genius, an Akatsuki member, a follower... He had it, why look too closely at things like freedom? He downed the cooling coffee quickly, and a grimace slid across his pale lips.

Lately everything had been tasting like clay.

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	4. Infiltration: Part 1

Infiltration: Part 1  
Microfic by Sarehptar

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The assassination had been a messy one; had hardly gone as smoothly as it should have, though not because of anyone in particular. That wasn't what Rei-sama would want to hear of course, so Deidara would take the blame. He always did--it made them so much more forgiving. He was the young one, the inexperienced one. Rei was always going easy when it came to him. The pale Iwa-nin fidgeted along the cool wooden bench. S-ranked easy sometimes left scars. 

The hit should have been simple; child's play. The target had been a Kunoichi for Heaven's sake and a Chuunin at that... He massaged his temples with deft fingers--not so much from a headache as from the need to keep his hands busy. The mission would have gone over perfectly, but they'd been ambushed earlier by a full ANBU platoon. The battle had been ridiculously long and taxing; even Sasori had been drained of Chakra. He shook his head without ceasing the repetitive circles his fingertips were tracing. If he'd been full of clay the platoon would have never stood a chance. He chuckled slightly. Deidara, the notoriously unprepared ninja. They'd managed to get away of course, something he couldn't say for the ANBU. There'd be widows weeping somewhere in a few days.

By all means, they should have given it at least a day before moving on to complete the mission, but time, in this case, had been a luxury ungranted. That woman knew things she wasn't supposed to know, and if she thought to disclose them... Hnh, he let that train of thought die. The rush had put them in a very bad place--he hardly had enough clay left for a spider, and Chakra? One shot, maybe. He'd left Sasori in the woods mending his puppets and gone to finish the mission himself. That was commonly how it worked with them: the Scorpion drew so much attention that almost every infiltration mission fell on the pale and (almost) inconspicuous Iwa nin.

If the woman had been a good ninja, following her would have loads of fun--he loved the way they all stiffened, walked at a brisk pace, darted glares from the corners of their eyes without turning... However, the Kunoichi seemed fairly oblivious, and Deidara had to work hard to keep himself from yawning in boredom. Her house was plain but comfortable--he could see the blooming plants through her wide kitchen window. Night didn't fall soon enough.

The target may have been oblivious, but she didn't have a death wish. He knew it was too much to hope for an open window. She sat, short dark hair spilling around her face like a black halo, at her dining room table. Pictures--she was putting together a scrapbook. With a grunt akin to pain, the straw-haired Akatsuki member summoned the last vestiges of his Chakra and sent a tiny clay spider through the barest crack in the window sill. The creature should have had enough Chakra to strike her dead, provided it reached a vital area. Unfortunately, it never had a chance. It scaled her chair, and spindly legs grasping the cloth of her flack jacket, made its slow way across her chest. The words of detonation burned on the edge of his tongue, but he forced them back--a bad choice. The female chuunin spotted the clay figurine and did something very unninja-like.

"SPIDER!" Realizing his plan had just been thoroughly endangered, Deidara detonated the insect at the same moment her hand flew out to brush the offending bug away. The explosion was tiny, almost soundless from where he was standing, but he could see the spray of blood as it dashed like reverse rain across the silvery window. The immediate howl of agony that followed crushed any lingering hope that the mission was completed.

Swiftly, thoughtlessly, he gave into the murderous instincts that had gained him his place in an S-ranked band. He felt his fist shatter the glass, adding his blood to her own. His sandaled feet splashed into the mess on the floor, inches from where she lie, whimpering and clutching the stump of her hand. The pain was clouding her vision, but she must have seen him--the barest of inaudible gasps made her throat expand, in time to meet cold, dark steel of his kunai. She shuddered once, spilling crimson drops onto his pale knuckles, and fell back, eyes wide and lips fluttering, forming words that ended in her severed vocal cords.  
_  
Mission accomplished.  
_  
Fatigue washed over him, and he resisted the sudden urge to lie down next to the bleeding corpse and sleep. The explosion would have attracted attention; he vaulted out the window, avoiding the jagged red edges of the glass. There'd be people flocking here immediately, and he didn't have enough Chakra -any Chakra- to make a quick get away. Best not to be prowling the streets or woods covered in blood... He slipped the scarred headband off his forehead and tucked it away; delicately he bent and took off his bloodied sandals, and skillfully tossed them behind her flowering bushes. Stately, slowly, as if he knew nothing about what had just happened, the pale artist turned away from the window.

"Mommy?" The voice inside the house was quiet, unsure. "Mommy? MOMMY!" He heard the light form collapse; he heard the delicate scrape of clothed knees across the sanguine floor. His footsteps never faltered.

"MOMMY!"

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Continued as Infiltration: Part 2


	5. Infiltration: Part 2

Infiltration: Part 2  
Microfic by Sarehptar

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_"Mommy?" The voice inside the house was quiet, unsure. "Mommy? MOMMY!" He heard the light form collapse; he heard the delicate scrape of clothed knees across the sanguine floor. His footsteps never faltered. "MOMMY!"  
_

"Chotto neechan, un!"(1) The brown-eyed girl blinked owlishly over her shoulder, surprised to find a haggard, blond young man -or was it woman?- come running up the path. His (it had to be a boy) smile was shockingly wide and friendly, and any unease that came from meeting a stranger at night slipped away. His attire was odd, and she knew instantly that he had to be a traveler: he kept turning an strangely decorated rice field hat over in one hand.

"Yes?" She blinked as he stopped beside her. Panting?

"Could you tell me where the bathhouse is, un?" She surveyed him for a moment and pointed off to her left.

"Three streets that way."

"Doumo!" His visible blue eye slid into a pleased curve, and with backward wave of his uninjured hand, he started away again. The brunette watched his black and red cloak ripple in the night breeze and she'd blinked again. _Was that mud all over him?  
_  
The bathhouse had been blessedly empty--no one to ask how the hell he'd managed to get himself drenched in blood. When was the last time he'd had a long enough break to enjoy a hot bath? He even had enough time to wash the cloak clean, and tear up one of the towels to bandage his hand. Next hit, he'd remember this and use the door. Outside again, blond hair dripping onto his clean undershirt, the Iwa artist contemplated leaving town to meet up with Sasori. Any thoughts along that line were cut short however, when a party of men, whispers of bloodshed slitting the warm night silence, hurried past.

"Search the woods. He'll have fled by now!" The hushed order almost made Deidara giggle. Here he was, three feet away... Shaking his head, sending dark water droplets cascading onto the dusty sepia road, the pale boy strolled silently away. Rather than chancing the return to his companion, he wandered into the nearest inn--a quaint, homely sort of place. The clerk was in tears, flustered and paying little attention to her surroundings.

"What's the matter neechan, un?" He really should have kept his mouth shut, spoke as little to them as possible, not bring on anymore trouble... But when had he avoided trouble?

"There's been a murder!" She threw up her hands in frustration, as if he ought to know already what had occurred. "The killer got away! What if he comes to bother my tenants? What if he tries to hide here!" Deidara schooled his face into a sympathetic smile.

"Don't worry neechan un, I'm a ninja! If you let me stay here tonight, I'll protect you, un!" She blinked at his warm smile and, reaching out with a shaky hand, gave him the innkeeping clipboard.

"Your name there. You can pay for the room in morning." He took the pink pen and signed lightly on the line, in a delicate, slanting handwriting that was not his own. _Name: Umai Uso._(2) He grinned again pleasantly as he returned the paper to her. She tried to share in his confidence, and turned the heavy brass key over with a shuddering smile of her own. "It's just down the way."

He was up before the sun, grudgingly--he'd hardly slept at all, and he'd really needed rest too! He could feel the Chakra finally, but it was a weak, faraway feeling. He wouldn't be flying for a week, at least. Silently, he left his yellow froggy coin purse on the front desk. It was probably double what he'd need to pay, but the innkeep surely wouldn't mind.

The sun rose red behind him, staining the still drying Akatsuki clouds on his back a deeper crimson. His bangs fell awkwardly in his eyes, not used to being free from the headband that held them in place. Brushing them aside, he positioned the standard Akatsuki straw hat on top of his head, enjoying the tin tinkle of the miniature bells. They played a sleepy melody in tune with his shoeless step. Rei was going to be angry about having to replace the sandals... He made it nearly to the edge of the village before fatigue caught up with him and a wooden bench, half enclosed in the low branches of a plum tree, called him to rest.

The assassination had been a messy one. Sasori was going to scold him for it when he got back, of course. He knew exactly what the Suna ninja would say--

"You're in my spot." _In my spot?_ Deidara blinked down at the source of his interrupted thoughts: a small blue-eyed girl. "You're in my spot." She repeated, undaunted, voice hard and strange coming from such a thin body.

"Un? Sumimasen."(3) He scooted along the bench, making room for her slide up beside him. She stared down into her tan hands, and he spotted for the first time the Konoha hitai-ate tied around her arm. The silence wore on him, and he was about to open his mouth to ask something -anything- when she cut him off.

"My mother is dead." The words were plain, clipped, half silent. He knew the tone by heart: she knew they would never meet again; she knew that she needed to speak, and that he could take her words away with him. It would be like they had never been spoken. This small girl had entered into a covenant with a stranger. "My mother is dead. I can't grieve for her." He said nothing, she didn't want him to. "Ninja's rule twenty-five. A ninja must never _show_ emotion. Someone killed her, for what?" _For what?_ "Mommy..." Her voice hitched in her throat, forcing its way free even as she crushed it down. _MOMMY!  
_  
He stood, cloak rippling delicately, and turned toward her. With his towel wrapped hand, he pulled the hat off his blond head, subconsciously leaning in to catch the tinkle of the bells. He knelt down in front of her, bringing himself to her eye level.

"Here." A flurry of tin melody, he sat the Akatsuki headgear on top of her dark mane. The bells stilled again, the edge hung low, the white cloth strips fell over her tiny form, hiding her face from view. A soft, sad smile lit his cerulean eyes, and as he turned to leave the town, he brushed the plum branches aside and whispered,  
"Now no one will see you cry."

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Author's Notes: Geeze... This is was more like a macro-micro fic... I had to split it up, but I don't think that hurt too much... I liked having the last line be "MOMMY!" Hmm... I hope you guys liked this one, 'cause I did! (At least I like it more than the other ones T.T ) So, Infiltration was finally finished and up at 12:10 AM. Yay. Late nights. 

Lookie, Deidara speaks Japanese! (OMG! Gasp.)  
(1) - **Chotto neechan: **Wait sister! "Neechan" is a friendly (genki) way to call a young woman you don't know. Don't try this in Japan--you have to be a cute young boy to get it to work.  
(2) - **Umai Uso: **The alias I gave Deidara here translates literally to "Clever Lie".  
(3) - **Sumimasen: **Forgive me, Excuse me.

To Rikou Suiyou: Yes, we do need to catch up! I'm soo glad you're liking this fic. Deidara is hard to write, because he's such a new character... Boy needs more air time! But I love him so much already. He's so... pretty!  
To Ziz: You hit the nail on the head! He is such a dual-sided character. Barely in the story and he's already beat out Itachi as my favorite... (But don't tell Uchiha-san that...) I'm really glad you've enjoyed my writing, and I hope you liked this one too!

Reviews: love!


	6. Midnight: Part 1

Warning: The following microfic has an _extremely_ mild warning for shounen-ai. Tch, I don't think it could be called even that--it's closer to a partner bonding thing... Eh, whatever. :) Sasori is beautiful.

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Midnight: Part 1  
A microfic by Sarehptar

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It was cold. God it was cold. The pale Stone ninja shivered, fingering the thin material of his black and scarlet cloak. So much for insulation. Stupid thing kept flapping when he walked, catching the cold air right off the snow and funneling it all up his front. His hands were not happy--it was so cold he wouldn't be surprised if the mouths iced over... Damn, that wouldn't be fun to fix. Who'd ever heard of snow in the _desert_? This was S-A-N-D country. What part of "suna" spelled "yuki"? He knew he was being ridiculous now, and he didn't really care. 

The young blond ninja stomped a little too hard, succeeding in burying one of his sandaled feet in a snowdrift.

"DAMN IT!" Wet, freezing, and unprepared for the elements (once again), the blue-eyed missing-nin crossed his arms, tossed his straw-colored ponytail and huffed in frustration. Iwagakure was a beautiful place in winter. There was snow of course, but it never stuck--it was always enough to make the sky shimmer and dance for young couples in the street, but never thick enough to last an hour on the ground. The Stone nation was relatively arid; exactly the weather one would expect to find in a treeless desert like Suna no Sato. So where the hell had this artic chill come from?

The pale clay-user stopped short -snowy sandal raised in mid-stride- at the sudden warmth of a hand on his back.

"Sasori-danna." He didn't need to turn to know his partner was behind the touch. After all, how many other people would come within ten feet of him?

"Hurry up brat." The gravelly scorpion hissed, turning the light touch into an exasperated push.

"For what?" The younger ninja muttered, fully aware of the whine that was slipping into his voice. "There's nothing but ice-coated snow for miles, un. It's gonna take weeks to reach River Country." Warm bed... Hot water... So far away.

"Maybe if you-" But the puppet-user let his insult die half born. Deidara's laughter rippled over the blank landscape, brightening the mood with a startling change in tone. "What?" The Sand ninja glared at the crimson cloud splashed between his taller partner's shoulder blades.

"Even without turning around un, I know exactly what your face looks like!" Cheekily the younger man rearranged his grin into a narrow-eyed scowl. "Grr, I'm Sasori-danna un, and the bad weather makes me grouchy, un! 'Cause I can't play with my puppets without their joints freezing up, grrr!"

Akasunano Sasori, assassin of nearly 300 kills, glared pointedly before letting the dark expression slide away entirely. Now was not the time for an arguement, and Deidara knew that too. An enormous outcropping of rock loomed in front of them, and muttering about moisture making the clay unless, the pale Iwa-nin gathered Chakra in his feet and started to walk up its face.

"Tch." Below him, Sasori stopped and leaned against the _almost_ warm, blessedly snow-free rockside. "We stop here." Deidara halted his ascent, blinking owlishly down at his crimson-haired partner.

"Here? We're in the middle of nowhere, un!"

"In half an hour, when you start complaining about being tired, we'd still be in the middle of nowhere. You can sleep on the snow, idiot, or you can sleep here." True enough, the large clump of rocks had created a sort of snow-less hollow. Deidara laughed sheepishly, flipped off the sand-etched surface, and landed beside his surly companion.

The clarity of Sasori's eyes had always unsettled him; the shade was remarkable--not quite brown, or red... A strong, dark mix of the two. But his partner had always been unsettling--Sasori was years older but still looked like a fragile teenaged boy. Sometimes, the Iwa-nin wondered if that had been a concious choice or not. Sighing in mock defeat, he crumpled against the rock face, gratful for the respite from the icy wind.

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Continued as Midnight: Part 2


	7. Midnight: Part 2

Midnight: Part 2  
A microfic by Sarehptar_

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__Sighing in mock defeat, he crumpled against the rock face, gratful for the respite from the icy wind._

"How do people _live_ here, un?" He muttered to the pale-skinned puppet ninja, who had sat himself gently -with a grace that defied his gruff nature- on the ground a few feet away.

"I managed." Sasori's answer was distant, and the sculptor knew he was thinking of other days.

"I don't get you Sand shinobi, un. Why live _here_ of all places? It's hideous, un. Completely uninteresting." Sasori turned to scowl, and the blue-eyed young man was surprised by the fierceness of his gaze.

"You're blind brat." The words were as gruff as normal, but Deidara could see the slightest softening of Sasori's scowl. To the scorpion... This wasteland was home. "Look idiot--at the way the snow glints. There's only sky and sand; earth and air, ignorant boy. Listen to the way the wind sounds when there are none of your village's stone monstrosities to stop it." He knew his mouth had fallen slightly open. Since when had Sasori become a poet? And... This affection for the desert? Another chilly puff of wind made its way over the rock face, and the Iwa-nin shivered in spite of himself. "Listen to—" The scorpion began but found himself quickly interrupted. "What's that noise?" He glared over to Deidara, who noticed the sound and noted its source immediately.

"Heh.." A tiny sheepish laugh wormed out of the Iwa ninja, and he held his goosebump covered hands up for inspection. "My teeth are chattering." Sasori struggled to keep himself from rolling his eyes at the three pairs of trembling teeth.

Deidara couldn't stifle the tiniest gasp of surprise when slender, warm fingers closed over his freezing skin. Sasori's unsettling eyes had turned again to wander over the white expanse, and independent from his gaze, the scorpion's impossibly alabaster digits danced lightly over the icy skin of his cobalt-eyed partner.

"How come you're so warm, un?" He'd wanted it come across as a complaint, but the words came free sounding like a shy and serious question.

"A ninja adapts to his situation," the mahogany-eyed Sand ninja retorted. Deidara shivered again. Displeased with his own lack of adaptability, the clay artist scooted to his impossibly tepid partner's side. The warmth from the touch spread through him quickly, even managing to reach the toes of his icy sandal. A sigh, half of relief and half of comfort, slipped free of the younger artist before he could rein his expression in. Yes, it was a shameless thievery of body heat (that, by all means, shouldn't exist for a puppet)…but, a sly little grin forced blood into Deidara's almost blue lips, Sasori wasn't complaining. Halfway between them, the scorpion ran his indigo fingernails across the other's thinly veined knuckles.

"Have you ever watched a desert rose bloom at midnight?" Sasori's voice was surprisingly soft, and Deidara noticed that the puppeteer looked almost shocked at his own tone. "You think beauty is a fleeting thing? Watch for the one moment, with a orange stained moon overhead, the wind blowing sand into your eyes... Watch for the one moment when the last petal unfurls, against the gale, unwavering, living to die... That one moment. It will happen again, again; ninja die and roses bloom under a red midnight sky--unstoppable petals. That is beauty: the perfection of one second, playing endlessly, eternally. Beauty is a flawless, infinitely repeating moment." Deidara's cold eyelids flickered heavily, half-drunken on the image of roses in the desert, suddenly feeling a fatigue that made his attention waver.

"But Sasori-danna..." He let his heavy head fall onto his partner's warm shoulder, to keep his cheek from freezing, and mumbled half-heartedly, "All moments end." Amber eyes blurring with the first vestiges of dreams, the clay artist stared at the gentle ivory junction of his partner's jaw and neck.

Halfway between them, Sasori's fingers stopped their mindless patterns and stilled. Two sets of indigo-tipped fingers found themselves entangled carelessly. The Iwa-nin blinked once, his last for the night, and slipped into soundless sleep. Sasori turned his mahogany eyes to the deep red desert sky; to the full orange moon, and ignored the soft cold breath playing with the collar of his cloak.

_Have you ever watched a desert rose bloom at midnight?_

* * *

Author's Notes: I hate it. I HATE IT! Kill it! This is the most unrevised, OOC, awful thing... I don't know WHY I posted this. You have every right now to ignore me and mock my lack of talent. I think I'll go crawl under a rock. Both parts need SERIOUS revision... It's pointless. Sorry I don't have time to answer reviews today... I'm off to my best friend's birthday party. My last one with her!


	8. Loud

**Warnings:** This was a gift-ficlet to a Deidara and Itachi obsessed friend of mine. There is the barest implied Deitachi, one-sided at best. I think there's also a swear word in here...

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Loud  
Microfic by Sarehptar  


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He envied Itachi--sometimes he just wanted to wring the other man's neck. The Uchiha took everything for granted: his power, his position, his eyes, his body... They were polar opposites in so many ways. Uchiha-san reminded him of a owl; silent, graceful, a deep-eyed effortless hunter. What was he then, this blond-haired, light-eyed ninja? A parrot. The thought made him laugh lightly. The onyx orbs of the Uchiha in question slid to him slowly, thoughtlessly. Instantly, the laughter died in his throat and he looked away. Uchiha-san's black eyes bothered him--they were absolutely dead, like the tissue of a recently slain corpse, just before the white-blue glaze of death snuck in. Though he'd never tell the other young man, he prefered the Sharingan. It was dangerous, of course, but weren't they all dangerous by definition?

A parrot, that's what he was. Loud, bright, flashy, extragant. Yes, he crushed a smile, that did sound accurate. They were completely different, Uchiha-san and Deidara. He'd figured that out the moment they'd met. He'd been so excited when Rei-sama had told them a new boy was coming... Uchiha-san had been fifteen, barely a year younger than him, and he'd been expecting a friend; expected the young man to welcome his company. After all, all the other members were years older and very stuffy; they remembered absolutely nothing about being teenagers! He almost laughed again. He'd never have expected Uchiha-san to be... Uchiha-san. Another laugh _did_ escape, and the midnight-haired Akatsuki member across the table peered at him blankly. If he strained just enough, the artist-nin could catch a hint of confusion in the subtle narrowing of Itachi's eyes. The Sharingan user really had no idea what was so entertaining.

"Uchiha-san remembers when we met, un?" Across the table, a pale hand froze in the motion of bringing chopsticks to Itachi's delicate mouth. He didn't even blink, but the blond Iwa-nin could tell his words had been unexpected. He waited silently, wondering just how the ex-leaf would answer.

"No." The word came lancing cold across the table in Uchiha-san's monotone but beautiful voice. No? Deidara's expectant smile faded weakly, and he looked away again. No... Itachi-san didn't remember almost stabbing the blond to death when he'd dropped off the ceiling to say 'Hello'? He forgot something as odd -as extragant- as that?

Damn Uchiha! He took everything for granted. Deidara forced himself away from the table a little too roughly; the Sharingan user didn't even look up as the normally cheerful ninja stomped past him. Of course Uchiha-san wouldn't--no matter how hard the flashy parrot worked for attention; the deep-eyed owl never sparred a second glance.

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Author's Notes: Meh, whatever. She liked it, so I figured I'd just post it. I tend to lose things that don't have a permanent place. Oh well, it's not supposed to be a masterpiece. 

To Fei-sama: Heh, I'm glad you did... This one was quite a bit different, ne? But I'm glad to be able to post these short ones again--two part microfics are a hassle! I hope you enjoyed this one, even the tiniest bit.

To Rikou Suiyou: Heh heh... I couldn't help myself... After seeing how cute and huggable and just down right pretty Sasori was, I couldn't make him a grouchy-puss for very long. Have you read 268? (Cry) Sasori and his little family... So cute, in a totally twisted way. This microfic was crazy: I really wanted to write something for the leader of my Dei-chan community, but she's a crazed Dei/Ita fan. (Slight gag) The result is here. I've got such a great idea for the next drabble... (Scrabbling to get it all down)

To Noname: Why post a story I think sucks? 'Cause it's always nice to post something! Eh, because I never update anything else? I dunno. I'm glad you liked it--as for concentrating on shounen-ai... Heh, I don't think that's going to happen. I'm into really subtle stuff, but I just don't have the... talent(?) to do what the yaoi fangirls do. Thanks for reading!

And it was my last time at her party because I'm moving away.

To Ziz: I'm glad you liked my microfic, and I'm sorry for the OOC. Sasori's true face is just to cute to be mean! Sweet? My best friend said the exact same thing. Thank you so much.

To Mori: Thanks so much! I might write some more Dei/Sasori soon... Hopefully more IC this time.

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	9. Marionette

Marionette  
A Microfic by Sarehptar

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Sometimes, he wondered how much free will he had left. It couldn't be much, to be truthful. When was the last time he'd chosen what time to be woken up? When was the last time he'd chosen what to eat for breakfast, what to wear, what to do with the day? When was the last time he opened his eyes and seen fresh, unassuming sunlight? 

"You're late." The voice that greeted him gruffly was one he could pinpoint instantly, no matter how dark their surroundings. Who else had a cold voice that wanted so very much to be warm? Sasori-danna always sounded like that: half-dead, slow, like sand in a snowstorm. "There's a new mission." His pale blue eyes adjusted to the inky light slowly, bringing the fragile form of his partner almost into view. The scorpion's alabaster eyelids glared half-lidded at him, in an expression all too familiar.

"Where to, un?" And the emptiness in his own voice sent a shiver down his spine. When had he become this weak person? When had he adjusted to servitude in the stilt of an S-ranked refuge?

"Iwagakure." Only the word was new; everything else he could describe with closed eyes. Even the chipped cup, the wisps of steam, the glint of his partner's scarlet strands in the darkness... Even the chilling lack of interest in their voices was routine. _Iwagakure._ This was new. This place... His own home. Why did the thought of going there not illicit even the tiniest spark of life? It simply didn't matter. Missions never did. Go, succeed, come back. Go again. Lately even seeing his art in action had failed to break the monotony.

What had he done before Akatsuki? Nothing. Or maybe something that didn't matter anymore. Living, after all, was insignificant beside the goal. What goal? He'd forgotten their aims more often then they bothered to remind him. What would happen if he asked one day, seriously, what they were all here for? A wry laugh bubbled free, and Sasori did not blink. A testament then, to how often they had acted out this same scene. Even the laugh was choreographed, timed perfectly to match all the other mornings that had come before.

The scorpion sipped his tea, much like a sage, only lacking the enlightment that days in darkness could not provide. The sound was the same as it had been last week, when they had been preparing for a mission in Rice country. _Damn it!_ He'd give anything to change the motions, even the tiniest... But Sasori stood and swept the straw hat onto his head. Like a taller mirror, Deidara echoed his partner's movement, subconciously; thoughtlessly. His body knew every step, every uneven stone... How? What if he decided suddenly to put his foot in a new place, a different place?

He kept walking in the footprints he had made weeks eariler.

It wouldn't always be like this. There was, for all it's monochrome appearance, a pattern to his existence. Days, weeks, months of unedited, unchanging routine--and then a flash, a spark of something. A single loss could send them reeling; could put his feet in places there had never been footprints before... He stiffled quickly the tiny hope that their mission in Iwagakure would be a failure.

Whose fault was this? Who had told him to fall in rank; to sigh at the exact same minute every day? Not Rei, not anyone he knew... Was greyscale life a part of seeking power? Mission, rest, mission, mission, rest. He had relinquished his free will for the greater good. (_Good_ being a fairly inaccurate word.) The sun stung the way it always did, not refreshing, not warming. Cold almost, not able to lighten the threads of the cloak he wore everyday. He followed the same path they always followed, the same number of inches he always stood from Sasori.

The ivory hands of his partner rolled Hiruko's scroll tightly, quickly, with a skill crafted from repetitive application. For a moment Deidara paused, only a moment, cobalt eyes imagining the puppet trapped within. Odd, wasn't it, to feel sympathetic for a dead thing? But he could feel it none the less, a little spark of empathy. He knew the feeling of strings around the wrist; knew the grey hopelessness of losing control. He knew the desperation that roiled behind the happy eyes of someone bound and bounced about by an unimaginative owner.

He kept walking in the footprints he'd made weeks eariler.

Life is a careless puppeteer.

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Author's Notes: Deidara is bad for my health. He makes me depressed. I have no clue why. He's always happy, but it doesn't seem like he should be. Oh well. This is one of the drabbles that bother me; too psychological. I'll probably change it up someday. Next drabble: something totally genki and artsy, I promise. 

To Rikou Suiyou: Serious, are you? Eh... I don't know, I just don't feel much up to tossing Itachi and Deidara into the same room. Deidara'd get massacred in about three minutes. Maybe I'll torture Itachi a bit. Nothing like Deidara to grind on stoic nerves. Haha... (Evilly Fun Idea) Why not? That'd qualify as "genki", wouldn't it?


	10. Cry

Cry  
Microfic by Sarehptar

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"It's raining, un." The cold had seeped under the shouji(1) sometime during the night; the floorboards felt like patterned black ice under his bare feet. Somewhere in the steel blue gloom, his partner growled. The sound was half groan, half muffled noise of discontent. Undoubtedly, the sand ninja was voicing his complaints from under a considerably large pile of blankets. 

"You care, because?" The shocking, gravelly voice of his partner came into focus as a pair of mahogany eyes and soft scarlet hair burrowed free of the heap of scratchy wool.

"The cold won't help your... cold, un." He finished weakly, lacking a better word to describe the red tip of his partner's pale nose, the dark shadows plaguing those already shadowed eyes, and the stifled snuffling the Scorpion was trying to hide. The blond turned his eyes outside again, watching the quick and steady drip of crystalline liquid from the roof eves to the half dirt, half mud ground. The wooden tub perched precariously on the sleek, wet outer walk collected the drops, without effort. _All things are effortless for inanimate objects._ The surfaces rang out in a dancing, plucky symphony of drumming drops. "It's pretty un, but it doesn't help." Sasori only grunted in answer to that observation, and snuffed unhappily into the shapeless mound of covers. The artist tried to his hardest not to laugh, but he failed miserably. The laughter sounded like a sour note in the watery score, and he stopped quickly. "Did you ever hear that old story, un... That rain is God's tears?"

A flat and sickly cinnamon eye ran over him in a cursory glance, but its owner said nothing.

"God's tears..." He shook his head slowly, shivering at the sudden exposure of pale skin on the back of his neck. "Stupid, un? What's He got to cry about?" Sasori only sniffled again, scowling at his own weak noises. Soft blue eyes struggled in vain to watch a raindrop descend from sky to earth. Huffing slightly to himself, the artist slid the shouji open further and reached out a pale, manicured hand. His fingertips closed over the pliable and swollen lip of the drenched wooden bowl, and he was surprised when his wrist shook with the weight. It must have been raining longer than he'd realized.

The dark water spilled over into his palms, and he ignored the sudden warmth of tongues in his hands licking the icy droplets off two pairs of lips. _God's tears..._ The liquid swirled garnet as he moved it, finally picking up the stains that the artist had meant to wash out in the morning.

Sasori blamed him for it, of course. It had been his bomb, after all. The artist blamed Sasori. If he'd stood a little farther back, they wouldn't have had to worry about flesh and blood shrapnel! Thankfully, the standard hats had kept their hair clean, but their cloaks had suffered the brunt of the sanguine backlash. Sasori said the stains would never come out. He'd complained for so long he'd worked himself into an illness. Or at least, that was how blue eyes saw it. More than likely, the illness had simply been a by-product of the blood shower and many holes Sasori had leading into his interior. The Scorpion forced back a sick little whimper, disguising it carefully as a grunt of disinterest.

It would have worked on someone else, but the artist saw through it immediately. Spending constant, mind-numbingly long stretches of time with someone can have remarkable effects. The blond didn't point out the failed attempt; quite unlike his normal self. Instead, he watched his pale fingers independently stir God's tears and the ill-gotten blood into a diluted whirlpool of heavy wet cloth and red jumping droplets.

"It's damn hot in here." The Scorpion complained, hating the sound of his voice coming out far too weak. Even as he griped, his blanket heaped form shivered starkly.

"But Sasori-danna, you're shaking. That's a fever, un." The artist's thick lashed eyes took in the red that spread from the Suna ninja's nose to his normally alabaster cheeks."I knew God's tears wouldn't help you, un." He felt the gentle swirling push of the red rain and black cloth around his fingertips, and blinked slowly in realization.

The sick Sand-nin jerked instinctively at the cold and shocking feeling of wet cloth across his forehead, and his hand was halfway to his partner's throat before the situation settled clearly in his less than clear mind. Defeated, his hand slumped back onto the colorless mound of wool and he held in a sigh of relief. He was Akasunano Sasori, he should not be bothered by a little illness. But the cold rain water felt so nice on his forehead... The blond knew it too, he could tell by the soft little smile that drifted in the somewhat blurry world on the other side of the soothing black cloth.

The artist watched icy, pale red water run in tiny rivulets down his partner's face, almost blending in with the pink stain across his ivory cheeks, finding purchase in the curve of his lips. The red rain dripped gently into the groove that separated human skin from puppet flesh, and settled there, like a diluted liquid necklace; their victim's blood mixed gently with the fallen tears of God...

"Tears of God, un..." He murmured almost thoughtlessly as he watched the blood dance down his partner's face. "What's He got to cry about?"

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Author's Notes: Hmm yeah, I lied. I promised something happy, and I failed again. Okay, that's not true... I actually wrote something happy, and something good as far as Deidara's character went... Just... Itachi decided to be a bit OOC, and so, I decided not to post it. Hm, yes. If you'd still like to read it, this link should take you to the original, unedited version: h t t p / tinyurl . com / 75cjv. No spaces, okay? Anyway, this was another of those psychological shorts that make a lot of sense to me but maybe not to other people... Yeah. Whatever. I felt like writing a Sasori and Deidara scene again. 

Notes:  
**(1) Shouji** - Rice paper doors and walls used in almost all traditional Japanese homes and inns.

To **Betty**: Ah, the eternal question! No, Deidara is guy... It's basically confirmed now, as he has been referred to several times as a "he". He also uses "ore", a very male form of "I", in Japanese. Also, in the anime, the small cave clip had him speaking... In a very masculine voice.  
To **Rikou Suiyou**: I'm really glad you liked it. I did promise a genki chapter, but ha, here's this one instead. Ah, I feel like crap. Last day at the beach before I officially am not a California girl anymore... And I got a rip roarin' sunburn!  
To **Smallpox Plum**: Hiya:) I'm glad you're liking these, but PLEASE, PLEASE don't be intimidated! These shorts aren't anything special, and any writing about Deidara is writing that must be written (and shared), because, like you said, there's just not enough of him! Anyway, I'm sooo happy that you like my drabbles, and I hope I didn't disappoint you with this gloominess... I'm just not good at genkidara.  
**The-MarmaladeCat1**: Hey hey, New Reviewer! (Doing a little dance) I'm so glad you like my mini stories... And I'm so glad you asked about Danna! (I've been dying for a chance to rant about it since forever).  
Danna is a Japanese name suffix, just like -chan, or -sama. Much like -sama, -danna is translated to something along the lines of "master". However, it differs from -sama a lot in its tone. Sama is used toward people who are higher in rank than you and who you do not have a serious relationship with. Example: Jaken uses "Sesshoumaru-sama" in Inuyasha, because he is not considered someone truly "close" to Sesshoumaru. Note, by "close", I don't mean romantically or even in a friendship sense. You would use -sama with your higher ups at work (if you're seriously humble), or a lord or the emperor withwhom it would be rude to presume you have a relationship. "Danna" is used by people who have a relationship: personal servants, servants ofa family, someone you have known for quite a while, someone you trust. Hachi, the raccoon dog in Inuyasha, refers to Miroku as "Miroku-danna". He has been with Miroku a long time, calling him "Miroku-sama" would be simply too sterile for their (grudging) relationship. Note: danna is used most commonly by wives refering to their husbands, which is why Inane wrote "Of course Husband Sasori" instead of "Of course Master Sasori" in that one chapter a while back. So that's basically it. Danna is like -sama, but a bit more personal, and it conveys a sense of partnership despite the fact that one is a servant and one is a master. :) Wow, that was really long... And barely understandable. Sorry. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

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	11. Seventeen

Seventeen  
Experimental Microfic By Sarehptar  
_Theme Song: Soul Rescuer_

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He is seventeen, and home is two hundred miles behind. He is paler than before; the kunai gash across his ivory cheek is half green from lack of care. He can see the shadows under his eyes, black like bruises and storm clouds. Even the shine has leeched from his normally bright hair; he feels dirty, he is dirty, and there is nothing he can do it change it.

He is seventeen, and his hands are red with stains that won't wash clean. His tongues have tasted blood--sugar sweet and tart like fermented strawberry. He has watched flesh burn, cut skin off rotting corpses; he has found the sweet spot on the human body that reacts perfectly to explosives--just the right amount of force can send the blood splashing out in a perfect, unending, circle.

He is seventeen, and the word 'Akatsuki' rolls off his tongue like boiling water. Hissing bubbles of anticipation well deep inside his chest, driving the darkness from his eyes and whispering promises of protection in his ear with a silky, serpentine voice. _Akatsuki_... And it feels as if a red sun is rising before him; bleeding delightful death and danger into an innocent blue sky.

He is seventeen, and the promises don't need to be any more appealing. He is hunted; he is a swift and merciless genius. _Everything they've ever said has come true._ Seventeen and skilled beyond compare. Seventeen and more in love with art than air. Seventeen and known for murder; seventeen and raining sweet innocent sneers down onto his victims.

He is seventeen, and a child only in the word's most figurative meaning. He knows how to flee, how to hide, how to kill and laugh. He knows which places are blind and which cities to avoid. Necessity has taught him to beg; patience, to kill, but it was the soulless eye slits in the Hunter's masks that taught him fear. And it is fear that drives him now, like a seabird before a squall. He knows it, he hates it, he tells no one. There is no one to tell. Skilled, seventeen, and all alone. _Everything they've ever said has come true._ Akatsuki. The word is papalable to him, ready to be taken up and molded. He knows this will be his masterpiece. A bright glimmer on an attainable horizon; a beckoning beam in a monotonous grey world of flight and fear. Akatsuki... He trembles in delight.

He is seventeen, and though he is taller, even the shortest of them manages to make him feel small. They are perfect matches, strong and fast and heartless. He wonders briefly if they aren't some different species of human altogether. Meticulously, he runs a pale lip and palm over the new soft silver on his index finger, and realizes that home is redefinable. The thick cloak on his back seems, for the moment, a perfect shield from those who would prefer to see him lifeless. The shadows under his eyes will fade; the fear will fade. A cacophony of colored glares delight an innocent sneer onto his face. _He has surpassed everything they've ever said,_ and his scarred headband blends so well...

He is seventeen, and smiling.

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Author's Notes: This is what comes of me trying to prove I can write in present tense. Heh, guess I can't. I'm really sorry for this one, it's WAY confusing. There are two different "them"s... One them is the people he used to know (I guess), and the last "them" is Akatsuki... I can't write. Anyway, this was posted only because I like the way the words sound (sorta). Eh, I'm sorry? I also wanted to thank everyone who reviewed! Oh yeah, it has a theme song! I decided to include a bit for the song I was listening to when I wrote the piece. They're all J-pop, so if you get a chance, listen to them! 

**To The-MarmaladeCat1:** I'm excited that you like it! Whee! Thank you so much for reviewing my piece, and I hope this one didn't totallybore you to death... Wow, I'mso glad you understood my description of "danna"...  
**To TidAL-rabbiT:** LOOVE. (Rabu) Yes, I said good-bye to dear Cali, but I have lots of fond memories and peeling sunburnt skin to remind me of what I'm missing.  
**To Smallpox Plum:** You are so cool. I love you. LOOVE. Lol, only kidding. But seriously, you are like the coolest reviewer ever! I love long reviews, they make me feel like I really know the people who read my stuff! Anyway, I'm sooooo glad you liked the last piece, and it's nice to know the Itachi one wasn't as awful as I felt like it was. Yay, a subtle relationship lover! Deidara and Sasori just seem like a pair who would never be really out there with their feelings... Plus, subtly is much more fun to write. Thanks again for reviewing, and I'm really sorry about this piece. Someone dared me to write in a way I'd never written seriously before, and I couldn't think of anything but present tense.  
**To Rikou Suiyou:** It's not me, un! It's all Kishimoto-san. But I'm really flattered that you enjoy this random stuff... This one was awful, ne? And loving Dei-chan's not a sin. At least, not in my book.  
**To Fuhrer:** Yay, new reviewer! (dance) Okay, now I will try to explain my reasoning for letting him get sick. Sasori is not totally a puppet. He can't be, he has to be composed of at least some organic material in order to exist in the way he does:the other puppets are not capable of speech or movement, but he is, therefore, he cannot be completely fabricated, and if he's not completely fabricated, he can still get ill. Also, there are definate visible lines when it comes to him, such as the lines on his neck and torso. These lines may (or may not) seperate areas of puppet material from human material. In essence, Sasori turned himself into a _puppet_, but in order to remain a _puppeteer_, he couldn't kill himself and finish the switch. Yeah, I could be wrong... But isn'tsickness cuter?


	12. Checkmate

Checkmate  
A Sasori-centric Microfic by Sarehptar  
_Theme Song: Dying (Five For Fighting)_

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Sometimes I think that Sasori-danna isn't fit to be a ninja. I know he isn't fit to be a murderer, despite the fact that he seems to revel in it. Zetsu once laughed when I voiced that opinion. He told me I didn't know my partner well at all. That isn't true, I'm certain. I know him better than anyone else. Sometimes the other members drive me crazy. Damn bastards are so wrapped up in themselves that they've stopped looking beyond the end of their own kunai. I'm bad with weapons, so I'm good at seeing.

Sasori-danna has made his face beautifully blank, but even so, he's miserable at hiding. I have always seen straight through him, like a damp sheet of rice paper. It has made him hate me. I like that best about us, because even though he can't stand me, he needs me, we're a team. I love his distrust, because in the end I don't trust him either and we're just equals. It's the game we've played forever -halfway between hatred and comradery- one so complicated that I've long forgotten the objective.

Now we're only playing so we won't slip into friendship. We're playing so that when he dies I won't be sad, and when I die, he'll curse instead of cry. I love the barbed remarks, the quiet lies, hell even the threats are fun, because every word he mutters makes him a little more transparent. My partner is like a tiny droplet of water--the same you might catch on the end of your tongue in the rain, the same that might run from your eyes. He's clear and flawless; his unmarred surface reflects everything that's trapped within.

Sasori-danna is weak, horribly so, and I know I get protective of him more often than I should. It's just that despite all his wood and metal, buried inside is beating bleeding heart and I can't help but notice that no matter how strong his shields are, he drops them far too often. He's older than me, but really I'm older than him; he's just a hollow toy, an empty drop of water. He's afraid of pain and afraid of loss and even though he's stripped away all his humanity, he's still more human than I'll ever be.

He's a murderer but isn't and frightening but not and no word suits him but paradox. Because even when he kills them he keeps them close, and I know he does it so he'll never be alone, so that even when he's as doll-like as them, he'll be a part of someone's world. He calls it art, I call it fear, and with him those two are one and the same. Everlasting--unable to leave him behind.

I think sometimes he isn't fit to be a ninja. When I'm washing the blood from his hands and he's shouting he can do it but letting me go on anyway, I think he's not like me at all. I think that even though he's carved up human corpses and torn apart nations, he's still innocent. When he's smiling that stupid blank smile under those calculating but bright eyes, it comes to me that he should have been some woman's loving husband, some kid's doting father, someone's art teacher... Even when he's lashing out at me with that venomous boyish voice, I see him for what he is--a casualty, a coward, a child lost in his own false reality.

Kisame likes to call me the weakest, but he's as blind as his partner and far less perceptive. I'm stronger, I know, though Sasori calls me intolerably idiotic, and I call him Master. It's part of our life-long game. Give and take, weedle and sacrifice, attack and defend. I let Kisame talk.

We are in a graveyard looking for some poor bastard's ashes--I can't remember what Rei-sama wants with them. I'm too tired to ask Sasori, and hell, he's in too awful a mood to talk to anyway. It's not easy robbing a ninja village's sacred grounds, so here we are at 3 AM, breath coming out in misty clouds, toes completely frozen. Neither one of us expected to stumble across someone else awake at this ungodly hour.

On this night, we're both unprepared. With skill that some say doesn't match our looks, we silently hide ourselves behind the gravestones. Thank God we're such small people! The thought of Kisame trying to cower behind a tombstone almost makes me giggle, but I stifle it well. Sasori's sour expression only deepens as the intruder stops one row away, directly behind us. The silence wears on me, and I can hear my breath and the Scorpion's weak little heart beating beside me. Curiousity takes its toll like always, and I peer around the dark granite.

"Mother, Father." The interrupter is on his knees, and I can see the tears from here. "Father..." The dark-haired boy's voice seems loud in such a quiet place. "Why did you leave me?" Beside me, my transparent partner's angry glare has vanished, and he is shivering. I know it's not from the cold. "You left me!" And the boy is sobbing, and he looks nothing like my delicate partner but suddenly they're the same person, the same fragile creature unable to sleep, the same broken child. Sasori stares blindly ahead, and I wonder if he even knows I'm watching him. It hurts to look at him like this, because I see that even though he has made it impossible for his body to shed tears, he hasn't escaped the sadness.

I feel then that someone ought to protect him, run a comforting hand along his winged back, whisper something comforting into his ear. I want to do this myself, I want to keep my weak, innocent murdering Master safe from his own heart... But that would break the rules of our little game, knock our entire battlefield board onto the ground. Instead I let him whimper in his own head and give him only a disinterested glare. In the end, he is unfit to be who he is, and I am too proud to forfeit the game.

* * *

Author's Notes: HOMG. I am so sorry. I like... Died. I haven't written anything for thisfic is months... Wow, really sorry. Umm yeah. I try hard to be more on top of things from now on, but life is passing me by. Anyway, I don't like this one that much,I really felt the need to post something, since I ignored my Akatsuki loves for like three months... Sasori seriously gives methe Mother-Hen Complex. Especially since I was right about him all along! I knew it, the moment I saw him--he was sweetie pie trying hard to look evil. My poor psychotic baby... I just wanna hug him. He's so tragic and... yeah. I think it sucks HORRIBLY that Kishimoto killed him. Deidara isn't going to be the same for me without him. But now that he's dead I have a lot of weird ideas that I could write. Hnh, yeah. 

**To The-MarmaladeCat: **Thank you saying such nice things! I'm really glad you liked it, and SOOOO sorry that I totally haven't updated in like forever. T.T Oh, and I did read your fic. It was lovely, and I'm surpremely jealous. I left a nice long review too. :) I hope you remember me after so long a gap...  
**To Rikou Suiyou:** Yes, I love the word cacophony much too... But my favorite word HAS to be 'Paradigm'. I mean come on, it's so spiffy looking... You need to update your fanfiction! ((Poke))  
**To Smallpox Plum:** You always write the nicest things! ((Super glomp)) Yes, Deidara is such a badass. Hrmh, yeah. I think this drabble is like off the hook. It's just too crazy and out there for me. But I always knew Sasori was a cutie pie, and I can't help making Deidara note that. Yeahhhh... Warm fermented strawberry. Have you ever tasted blood? I have REALLY low iron count in my blood, so when I bleed, it always tastes like sweet water. I couldn't help comparing it to wine, but since it doesn't taste like wine... Heh, the contrast between strawberries and rotting corpses was intentional, but I didn't pull it off well enough. Maybe I'll edit that part.  
**To noname:** LIAR! Heh, the Kakashi line just demanded that. Pinocchio... Hee hee. Poor Sasori though, you shouldn't pick on dead people! Anyway, I think I'm the one who got lost on the path of life... I hope you still remember this fiction, and thanks for reviewing.


	13. Reflection

Reflection  
A confusing Microfic by Sarehptar  
_Theme Song: Never Meant to Belong (Shiro Sagisu)_

* * *

"I think we're dying, un." The way he said it made the man beside him start -not sharply, but enough- and Deidara recognized instantly that "dying" was not something Akasunano Sasori liked to think about. "Does it scare you?" He caught himself asking, and almost wished he hadn't--if this strange ninja had a weakness as big as that... Cold, half-lidded mahogany eyes bored into his own, and the Iwa boy forced himself not to fidget. Then his new partner was gazing through the leaves again, and though he hadn't said a thing, he'd said enough. "It's okay, un. I'm not going anywhere." If his guess had been wrong, Sasori did not bother to correct him. 

The sky between the elm branches was a deep blue -so blue it almost hurt- and Deidara couldn't help but wish that the aqua expanse was tangible. He'd like to touch it, just once. It would be like water, wouldn't it? Like a cool and vast ocean, and he'd make ripples on the surface that would span the world. "We're all drowning, un." A bird swooped once overhead, with a high and hypnotic trill; a smile slipped onto his face. "It's a fish, un," and Deidara thought his partner might have been in a good mood because Sasori actually chuckled. Or he made a gritty noise that might have been a chuckle.

"And the trees," the stranger murmured in that voice that was like the grating of sand on stone, "What are they?" All right, this had to be the nicer side.

"They're," the cerulean-eyed man wondered at it, "They're pond reeds, reaching up for the sunlight on the surface, un."

"And the winds are currents."

"Un, un! And we're... We're all drowning." Sasori nodded vaguely, unpleasantly, and blinked up into the expanse, watching the currents tug the branches of the sea weeds.

"You're not really an idiot, are you?"

"Don't tell anyone, un?" The sculptor laughed, the hollow kind that he was so good at. Sasori's cinnamon stare from under those half-open eyelids unnerved him only a little, and Deidara thought suddenly that he could get used to looks like that. The blond grinned, pleased at the way his new companion scowled in return. Turning his attention to the half dead and half blooming leaves again, he couldn't help but think... "I don't mind dying, un. It's like art--all the work and troubles of a life crushed together in one last moment, and then, free!"

"Dying is _not_ art." His new partner's voice was so fierce in that moment that it was hard to imagine it coming from such a innocent-looking little person. "A whole life's work and memories, erased in an instant. How can you call it art? Death is the final end to all endurance... You can't remember those people you've killed, have you?" There it was in a moment, a realization that sent excited shivers down his spine. Akasunano Sasori was an _artist_.

"Them?" The Stone ninja went back to staring at the sky, but had to close his eyes. It was simply too deep to look into. "Sometimes I see their faces. I... don't remember them, un."

"If it fades away it was never worth anything in the beginning." The scorpion seemed to have no trouble at all staring through the sunlit surface far above. Deidara's smile flickered at the callous remark, but as with everything, his annoyance was hidden well.

"You'll fade one day. You'll die down here, un. Are you worthless?" Deidara did not expect this to be an end to their argument, but he did not really care about what the red-haired man would say. Laughter, sharp as kunai, cut through his disinterest.

"You have to be alive to drown." Deidara noticed that Sasori hardly ever blinked, and wondered how anyone could say something like that with such a slack face. He growled, a little noise that his new partner did not miss, and turned away from that smiling alabaster face.

"Fine then, you'll never die, un, and you'll never see the truth either! Beauty isn't about enduring and remembering, un! It's about the feelings that come over you, the revelation of _one moment_, the concentration and the way you cannot think at all because you can't see or feel anything else. Art is all about the mystery that comes from gaining and losing -in one second- the knowledge of something flawless and transcendent, un."

"Do you even know what 'transcendent' means?" The scorpion scoffed, but the insult was clearly half-hearted. Sasori seemed to have noticed too that their lives were going to be very different now. "Art, little boy, isn't something that dies. It _is_ mysterious in its strength, its ability to persevere through destruction... Art is the feeling you get when you see something greater than yourself, something that will _affect_ life, has affected life, will go on affecting lives of others when you're nothing but dust. Art is something so detailed, so perfect, so infinite; something so flawless... so _transcendent_, that you realize you are nothing before it. My works are going to last forever. I am going to last forever."

There was a note of finality in it, and Deidara knew that Sasori felt he had proved his point and would not go on anymore. Looking up through the leaves, the blond realized that through this whole meeting, he had not thought once about their mission or even their organization. As the currents tugged at the weak and rotten branches, plucking leaves and sending them floating up toward the expanse, Deidara couldn't help but feel an odd mixture of amusement and excitement that pooled in his stomach and bubbled through his wide grin. Sasori was looking up too, and seeing the same far-away surface. Though they were two separate people, completely opposite people, weren't they both imagining the same thing, reaching for the same impossible heights? _I'll make ripples on that surface that will span the world._ His grin slipped even wider. Silently, he turned back to face the red-headed man lying a few feet from him.

"I hate you, un." His partner did not blink, just smiled that soft, false smile up toward the watery sky.

"I hate you too." They were both laughing, dry and hollow and meaningless. This was the first time, the first silent promise to prove. It was a race now, to reach the surface. But really... This was interesting. Amusing. There were so many secrets to uncover, so much to learn and drain amusement from. The cinnamon-eyed man's face fell into a scowl that fit him and did not fit him.

Though they were still only strangers, Deidara thought he wouldn't mind drowning with Akasunano Sasori.

* * *

Author's Notes: Inspired by a poem and a picture. Does it confuse you? The idea boggled me for a few minutes. But it's sort of true, isn't it? I'd like to think that on the other side of the sky is a whole other world I've never seen... I sometimes wonder if maybe we're just reflections, and somewhere in the lake, my reflection is dreaming about touching the surface too. So yeah, this is that dream. I hope I didn't kill your minds. Anyway, this was supposed to be very clearly one of their first meetings after becoming partners. I didn't kill their views on art, did I? 

**To Jazzy Uchiha:** Thank you for reviewing, I'm really glad you liked it!  
**To Ione-girl:** Yay, new reviewer! (Dance!) I'm sooo glad you like my stories, and I hope you were inspired! There needs to be way more Deidara fanfiction out there, and it's up to us to make sure us Deidara fangirls always have something to enjoy.  
**To Smallpox Plum:** O.O You wrote me an essay. That is. so cool! Kyaaa, I read like it ten times. You're probably right about the wording of that blood stuff, but maaa, I'm really lazy. I'll get to it, one day... As for the last microfic, I had the same feelings about it. When I first wrote it, I really wasn't that impressed with it, but the idea definately grew on me as I worked on fixing it up. It made me want to give him a hug too. The way his parents died and he turned them into puppets just gave me this really strong impression of a lonely and lost child who dissolvedunder his drive to be noticed and not alone. I love how you noticed the little things--I always get the feeling that I don't make things apparent enough, but I can tell you really... get it! Anyway, thanks for being such an OMGspifflicious reviewer. Did this one give you a headache? It hurt me.


	14. Sickness

Sickness  
A Crack-fic by Sarehptar  
_Theme Song: Amsterdam (Coldplay)_

* * *

The mirror is dirty. It's the first thing you notice this morning, and not because it's the first place you go, but because most of the time you're not really conscious until lunch. Sasori knows it, he avoids you in the morning and you can't help but think that's one of the smartest things he's ever done. He almost never sleeps; he probably can't even remember what grogginess feels like. So when you see him vanish down the corridor like he doesn't even know you -wasn't watching you- it doesn't register. He's just a bobbing blob of red and black, and until you manage to fight the tangles from your hair and scrub your face -ew, is that drool?- that's all he'll be.The wide bathroom mirror that you all share is dirty, and the fact that you notice at all is surprising. Who the hell was in here last? It's way too early to be thinking, but today you can't help it, and great, things are already starting out troublesome. A thought flits across your mind, and the snicker that matches it cracks because your throat is always sore in the morning—Sasori and his obsession with the heater... Always feels like a friggin' desert in your room—You hope against hope that the weird blotch on the mirror isn't from that pimple you spotted on Uchiha's face yesterday. Briefly you wonder who pointed it out to him, and exactly how they got around to telling him he had a flaw. 

But on closer inspection -God, you really aren't conscious, why the hell are you looking closer at all?- it proves to be nothing but flecks of toothpaste. That annoying minty kind, because it has this very subtle green tint. That's Kisame's favorite, and you find its tube squished and still dripping on the shelf right next to Uchiha's bubblegum-flavoured crap. How pretty boy deals with the taste of sugar in his mouth so early in the morning, you can't even begin to fathom. You're a bit relieved to realize the mess on the mirror isn't what you thought it was, but then again, you're not that relieved, because it means no one's told Itachi about his blemish and that's all you're going to be able to look at during breakfast. Gross. The idea of revenge skitters across your mind, but it's not really fair to blame to the Uchiha. Sweat happens.

Kisame, you think. You can blame it on him. He should have told Itachi about it, and his irresponsibility is therefore the reason you'll be too disgusted to eat. Deftly, silently, you snatch his battered toothbrush, and without so much as a smile -just in case anyone walks in- you proceed to clean the clay out of the mouths in your hands. You'll take the heat for it later, but hey, you love violence, and Kisame is so brutish that he doesn't stand a chance against your art. Maybe he'll be so tired tonight he won't even notice? When you take your own toothbrush and your own toothpaste -orange flavour, eat your heart out traditionalists- and scrub your real mouth, things finally start to come clear for the day.

Wash, wash, the water is really cold against your puffy eyes and it feels nicer than anything you've felt in a long while. This time when you look in the mirror, you can see more than just the specks--you can see your hair which, somehow over the course of the night, has become a rat's nest. Half of your bangs are standing on end, or bent completely in the wrong direction, and the despair you've been feeling since entering the bathroom suddenly doubles. Bad hair day. Taking a kunai to the mess might be your only choice this time.

It's Zetsu to the rescue: when he comes wandering into the bathroom all dressed and almost looking happy to start the day -that weirdo, how can he possibly be happy?- he takes one look at you and, thank the gods, doesn't burst out laughing. There are tons of things he could have pointed out, from your tousled mop to the fact that because Sasori turned the heat up so far you'd been forced to ditch the standard issue night clothes in favor of boxers that had -Buddha, didn't you throw these away?- little green lizards dancing all across them.

"Uchiha put his hairspray in the crevice under the counter this morning." He says in that voice that is all flat and much less interesting than you'd expect from a man with a plant growing out of him. Itachi has taken to hiding things from you lately, probably because you have this tendency to claim everything in your hideout as communal property. Skillfully you peek down under the counter, and sure enough, in a crack between the side and the outer wall, there's a bottle and a wire brush tucked away. Bastard. Whatever the heck it is that he buys, it works like a miracle, and soon your hair is laying flat and shiny. You don't bother hiding the bottle again; Itachi is going to know you used it anyway.

Zetsu doesn't lower himself to ask when you sail past him giggling. You're just picturing those two -Uchiha and his overzealous guard-shark- discovering this evening what you've done. Itachi hates shopping; even though he won't show it, he'll be furious with you. You can just see him glowering as Kisame chases you around in circles intent on hanging your hide on the wall. Zetsu shakes his head, making this weird rustling noise, and you're glad your brain is still full of cotton because if you'd been all the way awake this entire morning might have given you a migraine. As it is, you're still debating curling up under the covers again and burying your face in the warm pillowcase that smells like 'Summer Rain' fabric softener. Unfortunately, Rei-sama has marked today as Conditioning Day -don't you kill enough to stay in shape without all this extra exercise?- which means he'll expect everyone outside before eight. Much too early, you glower at the shouji that lines the hall.

Sasori is not sitting in the room when you shove open the door, meaning you're probably already late for breakfast. Speedily -food is, after all, almost as important to you as sleep- you round up the first clean clothes you can find. You absolutely hate the fact that the uniforms are standard--damn it, you've put on one of Sasori's tops again; it's two sizes too small and _clingy_, but you're too sleepy and late to really care. He might be ticked off later because that was probably his last clean shirt, and weakly you pray that tomorrow is laundry day so he won't miss it.

When you finally slouch into the kitchen, it's not surprising to find everyone already eating. Someone has cooked pancakes, whose sugary warm smell is clashing badly with the rice and eggs someone else has made. Uchiha's head snaps up when you enter, and you're surprised at the action, until you notice his eyes are dark and empty, devoid of their normal crimson depth. He's conserving Chakra for the sparring you will all do today, and you're more than relieved. With his bad eyesight, he won't notice the spray in your hair right now. You clamber to your place between Zetsu and Sasori, and pass when the plant man offers you the spongy cakes. It's much too early for sugar(1), and you don't hesitate to point this out for the Uchiha, who is in the process of pouring more syrup onto his plate.

His wrist is resting on the porcelain edge, you notice, and the reason comes to your fuzzy brain a few seconds later—he can't see the plate and is touching it to make sure he doesn't unwittingly pour maple onto the table. A little twinge, close to pity but not quite there because you're still both heartless murderers, tugs somewhere inside. How many other changes has Itachi made to himself so that he can continue functioning like the rest of you? If your eyesight failed, shudder at the thought, you could probably never continue being a ninja. Of course, you don't just drop out of Akatsuki—you're no legendary sannin and you're willing to bet Rei-sama wouldn't have any trouble making sure you never leaked vital information.

The rice is satisfying, and as you eat in relative silence -what is there to talk about?- you can feel the mental processes in your brain slowly picking up speed. Suddenly incurring the wrath of both Hoshigaki and Uchiha doesn't seem like the brightest of ideas. Too late to fix it now... Sasori is complaining about something beside you, and since you haven't heard the word "art" yet, it's probably safe to tune him out.

He's always griping about something, from Iwa ninja's girlish looks to your bad habit of turning sideways on your futon and kicking his bed in the middle of the night. Today, Uchiha-san is the victim of his grouchiness. Oh, you realize, you can't tune him out this time—that idiot Tobi had come in earlier and pointed out Itachi's offending pimple. You stifle a laugh as Sasori demonstrates the face Uchiha wore upon discovering the unsightly blemish. The way his eyes widen and his mouth hangs open reminds you an odd cross between a frightened woman and a dead cat. A nod from Zetsu confirms the correctness of this imitation, and you think it's a shame you missed something like that. Itachi glares down the table like he knows you've all been poking fun at him, and you're really glad he can't make out the gritty glare your partner is sending in his direction, because you'd rather not start the exercise sparring over a syrupy mess of dough and sticky rice.

Dish duty is going to be hell today, but since it's not your turn it doesn't really matter. Sasori is still glaring, and you're willing to bet his whole bad mood can be traced back to one thing. An azure glance confirms it—your grouchy partner is the one who'll be scraping plates tonight. You don't really care so much. Then Uchiha-san is standing, and carefully, meticulously clearing his place. It's a sign to you to hurry because you're all going to look really disobedient if Itachi's standing with Rei-sama waiting while you all lag behind. And even though you don't care about Sasori at all, you're determined not to leave a single grain of rice in the bowl. You're just that hungry, really. Akasuna won't even know this dish was yours.

The well hidden entrance peels itself open, flooding half-lidded, morning clouded eyes with unwelcome light. Everyone squints except Itachi. His black irises -why aren't they white?- are undaunted where you are burned. That's Uchiha-san, through and through. He strides past your hesitant self without a second's pause, throwing his mind -nearly, never fully- into the battles to come. He must have heard Sasori talking about him after all, because he drifts in your partner's direction, toying with a kunai hidden in his long sleeve.

Then everyone else is outside too, and it's only you still standing on the threshold between home and the battlefields and shadow and light and sleep and reality. The doorframe that's not really a doorframe, but looks like one, is rough beneath your callused fingertips. You can feel the last vestiges of sleep slipping away, and hesitantly, weakly, you cling to them for just a moment. Zetsu looks, disinterested, in your direction, but you shut your eyes and lean against the wooden wall that isn't really wood and ignore him. It's normal, isn't it? You want to hold onto your grogginess -five more minutes- because it's a sign that you're still natural, still a normal man who doesn't like sugar and who steals toothbrushes. This morning sluggishness is human... You love almost nothing more.

Suddenly Rei-sama is growling and you've waited too long. With a breath -a sigh though you won't admit it- you pass through into the light that robs the last of sleep and dreams and leaves you a discomforting mix of cold and warm. Now you will fight and flee and bleed and aim to kill -not really, but really- the one who cooked your breakfast and the one who'll clean it up and the ones who have reason to be angry at you and don't even know it yet. You will fly and stab and trick and trigger destruction with a word and a power half the world doesn't have.

Uchiha-san's sharingan are burning, and his concentrated look reminds you nothing of a frightened woman or a dead cat. You'd never be able to tell from the Scorpion's alertness that he doesn't ever sleep. Somewhere to your left, Kisame is telling you to hurry up so he can skin you alive. The Kibaku Nendo(2) in your fists says he's got no chance. Tonight you will trip, stumble, be carried, fall into bed. Halfway through the night you'll shed your clothes because of the oppressive heat and kick Sasori in the process. In the morning, you won't even remember thinking this at all—you'll be clinging to sweet dreams and fuzzy warmth and everything it means to be an average man.

As a clay spider clambers up Kisame's leg -watch him dance- you can't help think... It's not so pointless is it, this groggy morning ritual—this sluggishness of mind and judgment that will invite a kunai to your throat one day.

After all, it's fun pretending to be human.

* * *

Author's Notes: Okay, are you going "What!"now? This my (one and only probably) Akatsuki crack-fic. It's random, and I think it's vaguely interesting that way. It's written with an almost omnipotent second-person view, which I have NEVER done before in prose. It was fun to try, but I probably won't do it again. It's also present tense, which is somewhat addictive. What did you think? Was it pointless? It appears to be so, but I think I also read a lot into the tiny human flaws everyone has. With this piece, I wanted to make them all seem like real people. Maybe I failed? So much of OOC... I actually wrote this about a week and a half ago and had to talk myself into posting it.

Notes:  
1) This is cultural reference. A lot of traditional and older Japanese people dislike the sugary foods (like doughnuts and pancakes) that most of us Americans are addicted to. I don't know why, but Deidara strikes me as someone who complain about sugar for breakfast. Yet I gave him orange flavored toothpaste (my own personal favorite), something very untraditional. Hmm.  
2) **Kibaku Nendo:** Exploding Clay

**To Smallpox Plum:** You got me wrong! I LOVE your long reviews! Like more than words can express. Please, write me an essay every time! I think it's sooooo cool that someone cares enough about my stuff to really put thought into their reviews. You're my hero:) I'm glad you understood the last one, I was worried that maybe I didn't express my own crazy dreams right. And I'm glad I managed to portray both Deidara and Sasori's views on art to the point where it was hard to pick one or the other. They are both so valid, aren't they? I want to write something about that one day. Your analysis about the nature of Sasori and Deidara is just so dead on. It's like you took the words right out of my head! You're too cool. Anyway, what did you think of this one? It was a little bit misleading I think.  
**To Arisawa:** You took down all your ItachiDeidara stories! I'm sad now. When I posted that chapter back there I did hate the two, but you changed my mind. I have many ideas for DeiIta now... But I am so lazy, I don't know if I will ever write them! Thank you for reviewing! I might write a chapter of this story in German, you will check my grammar for me, right?  
**To Ione-girl:** You remind me of a good friend. She does that same thing (putting her hand to her chest and going "That was so deep!") Funny coincidence. Anyway, I'm really glad you liked the last chapter, and I hope this one wasn't really disappointing. Tell me when you post your fic, mmkay?  
**To Jazzy Uchiha:** Thanks for reviewing!  
**To tidAL rabbiT: **Yay, I didn't kill anyone with that one! I like watching birds, and the sky is really so blue it always reminds me of the surface of a lake. What did you think of this one? Dumb, right?  
**To Rikou Suiyou:** I'm so glad that you liked it! Your opinion means so much to me, and I glad I managed to get the ideas across in that last one. I almost didn't post this one... Any sadly, the last sentence from last time was only centered, not indented. I want to indent my paragraphs so badly! Someone needs to lobby for a change in the accepted HTML codes.  
**To The-MarmaladeCat1: **Thank you, I'm so glad that you like these. As I write, I think I'm developing my own nuances to Deidara and Sasori. The more I think about them, the more dialouge and thoughtsI can put into their heads. I'm a little afraid Deidara won't turn out like I've written him though! Thanks for reviewing!

**

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	15. Exhale

Exhale  
A Microfic by Sarehptar  
_Theme Song: Half Light (Low and Tomandandy)_

* * *

He rises with the sun, before it, following it, it depends. It's always early, the cold sort of early when everything is grayer, lighter, a little sweeter and a little less alive. He loves this time, because even though some of the others are already awake, they don't show their faces, they sit still as statues in their rooms. He can almost hear them, because the chill of weak sunlight seems to magnify every tiny sound. He can hear his breath, though he is holding it; he can hear his heart, though its song is soft and offbeat. It's as if he can sense their breath answering his own. Inhale. Exhale. 

The wood beneath his bare feet is so firm and slickly polished that it is easy to pretend it is not floor at all but ice, and that at any moment he might fail to see, slip though a thinner part and lose himself forever. This is what he thinks about as the first tentative rays of the sun reach out slowly-slowly and brush against the sumi-e painting on his west wall. Sunrise meeting sunrise--only one rises over children, and the other over men.

He straightens the sleeping yukata over the ivory peaks of his collar bones with a gesture that could be careless and could be careful. The rustle is loud, roaringly loud, but no one notices. He loves this time of the day because that is always how things are -unordinary, amazing, stark- and no one's blood is beating fast enough to see them (hear them, taste them, feel them). When he makes his way across the room it is on the balls of his feet, slowly as the advancing sun, testing each icy board for weakness with all the trepidation of a crane in foreign waters.

The shouji has leeched moisture from the night, his hand slips on its wooden edge and tears the tiniest bit of one water-weakened square. It is a mistake, and he sees it so clearly that it is as if he has torn the whole door down. In the afternoon, it will not be seen at all. There is an apology on the tip of his tongue, but it never makes it though his pale chapped lips, much like everything he truly wants to say. Instead he slides the wall back delicately, as if better treatment now might atone for what has passed. The air outside is as gray as that within, only slightly more alit with what may prove to be a rainy or a sunny day. His breath comes free as a dancing plume of mist that sparkles in the half light and then fades away as if never breathed at all.

Bracing himself, for what he is not sure, he crosses the threshold of wood and paper that separates everything that is good (and bad) from everything that simply _is_. Here, there is no ice and no floor to balance his feet, no sturdy place to stand upon and warily test the rest of the world. Because he is a ninja, a good ninja (a bad ninja), when he leaps with abandon into the unsure waters of the lawn, there is not a sound. Not a sound, he is pleased, even with the rippling cold and evanescent mist magnifying every shiver that runs across his skin, skin that looks almost unhealthy in this sumi-e sunlight.

When he collapses, it is planned, he catches the edges of his long nightrobe with the backs of his knees, so that not even one extra inch of his pale skin will be exposed to chill. It is not so much falling as a pretty way of sitting, a way that makes his hair scatter even more, almost glinting (but not quite because he doesn't give it as much care as he should). The blades of grass nick his ankles like paper-thin kunai, wet and stiff as freshly poisoned senbon. His hair drifts back into place, perpetually straight and straw-like. Then he is leaning forward, dangerously far, sending his hair cascading down in a mock reflection of its previous flight.

His nose, and eyes by association, are on level with the tiny blades seeking to hack him limb from limb, and he is looking. There are things to see so close to the earth, things pleasant and not so pleasant. In a moment he finds it, the most delicate and most dangerous object in the miniature field--a single drop of dew, suspended between the gray edges of the air and the green edges of the grass. Its form is flawless, intricately round, tapering in on itself at the ends to make it as bead-like and precious as a translucent pearl. It looks as if any second it will out weigh the supple blade it sits upon and slip free, but by some feat of magic or of science, the delicate drop stands as still and strong as he does.

For all it beauty, he can see danger in it, because he can see himself in it. The reflective glassy drop shows everything that is, a perfect inverse of the world he likes to call his own. Just inside it a rounded and silvery version of a warrior stares back, all blue eyes and pale skin and something that might be a smile and might be grimace like the curved edges of the pearly dew are suggesting. He likes to see himself this way, because the distortion and the purity make it so easy to see everything you want and nothing you don't.

Inside the tiny bubble that has caught not just his eye but his whole body, he can see the barest curved reflection of the plum tree at his back, the crooked edge of the warped pine porch, the gray sky beyond all of that. It as if everything he knows to be reality has been crushed, rolled into the glimmering sliver of moisture and made to change and dance. Is there another world inside the confines of that sparkle, or is he only imagining again? It's easy to think there is something more than darkness at the back of that tiny mirror, because how could he ever look that innocent? That half-smile, that shine in that eye, that fragile appearance is surely not his own. It's an answer, he thinks--that the boy inside the teardrop is not him at all, but someone else entirely, a lost twin, the good twin who got crushed along with everything that might be reality and might be nothing but warped reflection.

The sunlight has crept closer sometime during his thinking; he can hear one of them stirring inside, but the sound is faint because the gray chill of the morning is fading away and taking all its magic with it. He can just barely hear their breath, slow and almost steady. Inhale. Exhale. And he has just made a mistake -his second of the day- without even realizing it--where its own weight was not enough, his quiet, tiny breath has provided the motion.

Silently, without so much as a dying glimmer, his entire world rolls off the sharpened edge of a blade and plummets freely through the half-light of the ending morning. He can still see that other man inside it, eyes wide in surprise, fear of falling... Motionless he watches its descent, curling over and in on itself and crushing even further the reality below the surface. Then, with no firm ground, no thick ice to break its fall, the world inside the pearl which might as well be his own strikes the unsure earth... and without changing a single thing, without causing a single ripple, he watches as the better twin is devoured by the thirsty earth, the sumi-e colored clay.

Inside the house, he can hear them beginning to speak.

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Author's Notes: If you get this, you're really cool. If you don't get it, ha ha, I suck. Anyway, this one is related to "Reflection" in a way, so maybe one day I'll move it to where it belongs. I tried to write a serious morning fiction... I didn't fail totally, did I? Mahhh, it took me a while to work up the nerve to post this one too. It's just so... weird. Oh, yeah! I forgot! I managed to write all of my ideas for Sei down and stick them online (this way I'll remember them). You can check out what is coming up right here: http / www . speedsurf.to / sarehptar / sei . htm, if you are interested. (Remember to take the spaces out!) 

_Note:_ Sumi-e is a famous type of Japanese painting using only black ink in various concentrations from solid ebony to almost translucent gray. The paintings are absolutely beautiful.

**To Smallpox Plum:** I didn't like it either, hence the delay in posting. But I'm soooo glad you managed to catch the dual nature of it--it was meant to seem completely pleasant and normal, but I also wanted the bitter undertone to be there, and you caught it perfectly. Did this one makes sense to you? I love how you always manage to pick up on the tiniest things I write... It makes me feel like I am doing things right! Anyway, thanks for reviewing so faithfully (I always look forward to your review most.)  
**To Jazzy Uchiha:** Hee hee, I'm glad you liked it. Thank you for reviewing, and I hope this one wasn't too strange for you.  
**To JazzSparks22:** Don't worry about it, I totally understand how it is to love a story but never review it. (v.v) But thank you so much for taking the time this time, I looove reviews. Ew... No showersfor ninja would be nasty. I'm glad you liked the last chapter.  
**To Ione-girl**:Hee hee, I wish I could be Deidara for a morning. I'd kick back and blow things up likecrazy. The link got deleted last time and then I was so busy with a research project, but I'm going to check out your storyAS soon as I get sometime... I've been dying under stress lately. Anyway, thanks for reviewing!  
**To M3di4h**: I'm glad you liked the last chapter...But ha ha, me updating quickly is like a joke.It's a miracle that I'vemanaged tokeep this story alive, let alone update on a decent time... Thanks for reviewing!  
**To Rikou Suiyou:** I pity Itachi too, very very much. He is such a great character to write with, and I love talking about him. A pimple yes... You know those ninja can't all have perfectly flawless skin with all that running and living in forests they do. Yes, I have been keeping up with the manga, and yes it is crazy. WTH was up with Kabuto healing Sakura. That was retarded. Anyway, thanks for reviewing. This chapter is like... acid trip.

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	16. Horizon

Horizon  
A Microfic by Sarehptar  
**Theme Song: Who is This Child? (Trans-Siberian Orchestra)**

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_What is this life? There will be other lives._

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When she looks at me, with eyes like that... It is the look, the confusion, in the blackness of her pupils. She does not know me, but what she sees is reflected on the surface of her eyes. Look! There, where the light stabs into her irises at just the right angle: she is seeing me like I am seeing her and I hate her and she is judging me! In her eyes I am a stranger, a man, a new face, a twisting grin. Like reading any scroll, I can tell her thoughts. _Who are you? What are you doing here? Can I know your name, can I know you? Let me hear your voice just once before... _

Because she surely knows, must know what is going to happen. As easily as I have read her she has read me. The dead can do that. We are still as statues, ha, stiller. Statues have more life than she and I, and each breath we take is taken together. She is keeping pace with me so that she will be ready when it stops. When everything stops. I want to hear her exhaling, want to hear it sharpen in expectation but she is like my own reflection, not a second too soon or late. I hate her and I am afraid because what if when it stops my exhaling is the silent one?

She is beautiful, but it is not in a way I would notice. I notice it now. Her skin is smooth, as nice as mine, and only Sasori's is nicer because it isn't really real. She is small, in the way that women are, thinner and more glass -easier to see into- in every way. She is young, but not the young that I pretend to be, because in the corners of her mouth I can see the barest of something that tells me she's not always happy. No one's always happy, I am. In the darkness of the room, she looks much smaller than she is, she is standing and she should reach my eyes but somehow, even with only a vase of flowers between us, she seems infantile, the size of one the roses she has so delicately arranged.

What is she worth? Nothing, what I am worth? There are million other women as glorious, as intricate as blown-glass as she is. But this one counts because she's looking at me and she knows and she's just a child really! I wish I had not come, but later I will revel in this moment, each moment like it that I have ever lived. Now I want to blind her eyes, stop them from seeing into my soul—_I am a forbidden scroll and_ you _know too much about them already._ I hate her, because this tiny woman, bad woman, is reading me! _What have you done? What do you love? Can I know your name, can I know you? Tell the truth to me just once before..._

Her hair is blonde just like mine in that way that is natural but never looks it and its flawless and pale and is it glowing in this lightless catacomb? Her eyes, her eyes are as sharp as senbon and as inviting. Mine are blue and hers are as green as the ocean in comparison to the sky, as the waves are to the expanse. Here I am, Heaven, standing over her, Earth, impossibly out of her reach except that distant, always distant point were we blend together, where invincibility is hers as much as mine and Heaven and Human or Human and Heaven are just names for the shades on a vaster painting than both of us. I hate her!

_Your name is... and you love... and you are here to..._ Our same-time breath is quickening, in in in, and I fear that she will make a move. Maybe she will scream, maybe she will run, maybe she will cross the distance and touch me with glass hands that _know_, maybe I will let her. If for one moment all the ocean and all the sky were to meet, would anything change? We aren't worth enough, she and I. One, two of thousands, two breathing statues who can not even force their limbs to move, two doomed souls among millions. I am a killer, she is a protector, but what's so different and what's so special and where are we both going if we're going anywhere?

She is every person I have ever met, every pair of eyes I have looked into, every soul that I have seen stripped bare and every heart I have heard beat in time with my own in the last precious seconds. She is everyone, each one of them, nothing special, not distinguishable from the hundreds that have come before her, will come after her. But in that one moment standing there behind the roses and seeing her and being seen there is an infinite knowledge between us, the secret intelligence of beloved siblings, or destined lovers or the desperate strangers that we are. I have seen the darkest depths of her and she of me and for one moment with our eyes locked together we are at the point where sky and waves are one and the same, the ever retreating point where Heaven and Earth and maybe even Hell are all one. Protector and Murderer and we are one for this one moment, breathing together, only a garden of thorns between us, and she is judging me and I am learning.

It is not either of us that breaks the hold, not one of our stone forms makes the first move, there is no first move made, but suddenly we both are in new places and she has judged and I am educated now and the moment has lasted too long. The taste of her gaze has turned bitter on my tongue like the gazes always do and I regret coming. The singular fluid jerk is in my hand and in my eyes and in my Chakra. The sky has been ripped from the sea by my approach; in a roil of clouds inside the blackness, I am gone from her. For the five seconds four seconds _threesecondstwoseconds_ **ONE**! she may imagine I was never there at all, a dream, a nightmare, an... instantaneous explosion that shatters the silence I had there and here, and I am far enough away that I can see the blaze but the judgment cannot reach me.

Now it has passed, and the ocean is receding in my mind. I will stop caring soon, I will not hate her seeing me, I will not mourn what I have seen in her. Soon she will be only another number, another story, another soul I have seen, another breath I have taken. What does it matter? There will be others exactly like her, others as fragile, others as intelligent and inescapable. What's one soul worth, and what does it matter if she dies a little early? The world will not lose something because she is gone, there are millions waiting to take her place! I will not hold myself accountable for this, for this little death. I will not be responsible for her breath stopping—it would have stopped one day.

The darkness is warm around me, and the far reaches of her garden smell like blood and roses. Already I am forgetting all I have learned, forgetting the shade that waves and sky make when they meet. The path back into my own life where eyes are only eyes is winding dirty now before me, lit by an oily orange glow and the thin glassy shadows of thorns.

_Your name is..._  
By my dreams tonight she will be only memory, less than memory, an artistic moment, and like her death no one will value this.  
_...and you are here to..._  
By tomorrow she will be to me what all my other victims are:  
_...and you love..._  
no one.

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_Could this one life really matter?_

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Author's Notes: I'm getting more and more abstract as time goes on, which isn't really like me... But this chapter is very a product of my current situation. I've been writing Cloaks like a mad woman, and I think this drabble got seriously influenced. The style of this piece just has Kharl written all over it... Which I guess is bad, but I can't bring myself to say that. I actually kind of like this piece. Maybe you don't—but I think because I know exactly the message I was trying to get across, the idea is just really appealing. In what way did you read this? I'm sorry about the crazy syntax, I got a little sick of the English language. Ha ha, no. I honestly wanted to cut all the commas and stuff because I thought it gave the writing a feverish pitch. Maybe I failed... Anyway, sorry I haven't updated in forever. Busy with school and trying to finish up my other fanfiction. Blah.

**To Ione-girl:** I argee with you totally. Deidara as I see him really seems to have two sides, and I want desperately to know what is inside. Kishimoto, bring him back into the storrryy nowwww! Anyway, thanks for reviewing, and I'm glad you got my meaning. What about this one, did you like it?  
**To Jazzy Uchiha:** Yay, you understood it too... Many thanks for reviewing, and I hope you liked this chapter as well.  
**To Suiren Ningyo no Koori: **I'm glad you still like the story even if we don't talk anymore. Thank you for reviewing, and I hope you liked this chapter too.  
**To .why hello.: **Cute name:D I'm glad you like the story, and I'm really really glad you like my style of writing. It's been changing lately, but I'm hoping to stabilize things soon. Deidara's thoughts were exaggerated? Yeah, probably. I tend to project every tiny thing, so I probably just made the thoughts too out there. This chapter was pretty much all thought... It wasn't too exaggerated, was it? T.T I hope not. Anyway, thank you for reviewing!  
**To The Leviathan:** Hee hee, I'm really glad you like them. I'm glad you liked the crack!fic... I was really bored that day, and those things made me laugh too. This chapter wasn't on the site list, but I am really going to try and start picking those ones soon... I've been dividing myself between two fics lately and I think the other one is sapping all my plot writing ability. T.T Anyway, thanks for reviewing!  
**To A.K.W: **What a strange coincidence—one of my friends in Germany has the very same initials. Cool. You only watch the dub anime? Ouch, seriously. I hate the English voices. You really ought to look into getting your hands on the Japanese version, it's soooo much better, plus no editting! (Hates the censoring!) Anyway, I'm glad you chose to spoil yourself, because it means that I got a new reader. :D Thank you for reviewing.  
**To TatteredCrimson:** Whoa,first time writing that name. My writing style is perfect? (Faints) No, no, you have us confused! I think your style is so much better. You know, the cadence? Your stories make **me** feel like things are happening (sad things and mysterious things usually but always real things) so don't you say you lack that. Still, I get so happy hearing you say you like my writing. As for the colors in the last chapter, you were like, dead on. If you've never heard the song Half Light, it's probably hard to understand, but I really see music in colors, and that song was, like Wind, one of those songs that just seems to bring out the wonder of just a few colors lost in monotone. I'm glad you liked the little things I threw in there, I was worried they might be too much... But most of all, I'm so glad that you understand my feelings about Deidara just by reading what I write. When I think of him, I almost never feel happy... It's just like looking at a monster who knows how terrible he is, and wants to be someone else but can't because of so many reasons. Blah. Anyway, what did you think of this one? Crazy or did you get it? (Why am I asking, I know you must have gotten it.)

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	17. Dream

Dream  
A Microfic by Sarehptar  
_Theme Song: Silent Shout (The Knife)  
_**Warnings: Implied Shounen-ai**

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_You stand by and enlighten me_

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He chuckles without realizing he has made the noise, and waves an exasperated hand carelessly. The mouth in his palm opens and closes almost in time with his real lips, and he tells the story without noticing. 

"And this is the best, un! I was going to get married—not even to a ninja." He smirks at the absurdity of it. "I was going to marry a civilian. A real pretty chick, un. An actress, or a model or something you know?" Sasori nods, a disinterested gesture that runs his autumn hair across their pillows and tangles it into impossible knots.

"And we were gonna have two kids, really cute kids, un. Two little blonde girls. And I was going to send one to the ninja academy, because every parent does that, right? But the other one, I thought maybe we could send her to a traditional school. I always wanted a poet in my family, un!" Deidara watches his partner's half-lidded eyes open and close slowly.

"And I wanted to be on the Hunter-nin force, un." He is outright laughing now, as if the thoughts are new to him and not the same story he'd been telling himself since academy. "You know, the whole 'mysterious hero coming home to a happy family' thing?" He stares at the ceiling and ignores Sasori pulling at the ends of his hair. The smaller man always pulls too hard, because he can't feel that sort of pain himself.

"Yeah." He sighs a strange mix of content and regret. "I was going to have a Happily Ever After and everything." As if it is infectious, Sasori chuckles, and Deidara holds back a shiver as cold air of the false-breath dances across his bare collar bone.

"What happened?" There is mockery and veiled curiosity in the Scorpion's question. In the darkness it is hard to tell, but the blond believes that Sasori is staring at him sharply now, a little bit bitter and a little bit welcoming. Deidara untangles the smaller man's fingers from his long hair with practiced ease.

"First there was art," he smiles wanly into the blackness, knowing that Sasori is smiling too, "and then there was you."

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_A cracked smile and a silent shout_

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Author's Notes: I don't know what to say about this one. I just wanted to write it, a lot. I wanted to write something kinda cute and fluffy, but I ended up messing it up again. Like everything I write it turned out sorta two-faced. I mean, YAY! Sasori/Deidara-ness... Which I'll apologize now for, for those of you who don't like that pairing. But under that, it came out angsty again. I just can't write Deidara happy. Maybe I can write something with Tobi in it! Cheap entertainment? (Sigh) Well, I'm sorry that I made you all wait so long and then this is what you get. Please don't judge it too harshly, I've been shockingly busy lately.

Review Responses:  
**To Citca:** Wahh, I didn't even think about that being possible, that woman being the little girl's mother... So I guess she wasn't? But she couldn't. I wanted her to sorta be anonymous, like she could be any person he's even killed. Just another victim, ne? I hope I didn't totally ruin this story for you with this stupid addition. Thanks for reviewing!  
**To Naitachal666:** It's so awesome to hear that readers connect with the stories I write, and I thought your poem was great. Do you write a lot? My poetry is awful. v.v Anyway, thanks so much for reviewing!  
**To Ione-girl:** I just love it when I get reviews like yours. You always tell me exactly how you understand it, and that makes me so happy--because I know that you guys who read it are getting the same ideas and it's like wow! I know that doesn't make any sense, but yeah... I would like to read your story, even though I'm pretty much a devoted Sasori/Deidara fangirl. Expect a review from me soon, mmmkay? And thank you for reviewing my story!  
**To Smallpox Plum:** Gah, I just love it everytime I hear from you! I agree with what you said about "Exhale". I have a habit of throwing so much detail in there that it becomes hard to see the whole scene. It's something I definitely need to work on. But I'm glad that my really extreme assumptions about the morning were on, I hate waking up before everyone! I always get the feeling I'm the last person that will ever wake up, or that I've woken up to a graveyard. I'm also glad that you like the last one, I like it too, in retrospect. I think Sei!Deidara and I are a lot alike. I want desperately to believe that we're all a part of something bigger, but I keep slamming myself back down by remembering that our lives aren't even eyeblinks in the course of the world. We're utterly insignificant, and I think that Deidara would feel that way too. (Sorry if I'm being super depressing...) I'm sorry to keep you waiting just for this silly little thing, but thank you very much for reviewing!  
**To Ms. Yamanaka Ino: **Thank you very much for reviewing. Who is the woman he saw? Ha ha, I really don't know either. Just another victim. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter just a little bit... But then, maybe not. I'm sorry?  
**To tidAL rabbiT:** Yeah, who cares about English? Boring language! (kicks it) No, I'm just kidding. I think there's really a time and place for following rules, and just like Deidara, I want to break them sometimes. Anyway, thank you very much for reviewing, and I hope this stupid chapter didn't make you hate me! T.T

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	18. Eulogy

Eulogy  
A Microfic by Sarehptar  
_Theme Song: Set Fire to the Third Bar (Snow Patrol)  
_**Warnings: Subtle(?) Shounen-ai

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He curls more tightly in on himself, fingers and lips quest along the rough tatami. He presses a cheek deeper into the woven mats and turns a sky-blue eye upward to skin as white as the moon, to a black and starless gaze.

"Itachi," he murmurs, and waits to be rebuked. The Uchiha does it with his eyes –the barest narrowing of heavy midnight lashes– but he does not say a word, and the artist takes that silence as the answer he desires. Tempting the warning, the blond boy draws closer warily, like approaching a fire: hands first, to test the heat, to ward off burn.

But the Sharingan shinobi's side is cold as scattered ashes, unyielding as stone. Lips brush lightly against thin material, ready to bate and ascend like starlings should a blaze reawaken. The Uchiha does not stir; black eyes do not waver from the heartless mission statement he is reading. Deidara laughs suddenly, just once, and walks his fingers along the rise of the smaller boy's waistband. Itachi can no more see those words than he can see the artist's face staring up at him from the floor. (Deidara wonders for a moment what it would be like to be truly faceless, and thinks he might enjoy it.) Maybe he is hoping that, by delaying the words, he is delaying the mission, the madness, the murder. The blond laughs again, a hollow, aching sound. Silly to think Itachi cares that much.

Slowly, pointedly, Deidara divests the leaf ninja of his shirt. He does not fumble as he undoes each steel clasp, though they were meant for two hands, not two fingers and teeth. The garment pools in waves around Itachi's elbows and the small of his back, looking more like shed skin, a shed layer of darkness, than cloth.

The black-haired boy looks momentarily confused, dark eyes the barest fraction wider than before. But then, as with every new piece of information, Itachi analyzes, memorizes, absorbs the weight and warmth of Deidara's hand on his bare skin, and casts it aside as irrelevant.

_Irrelevant_. Itachi's pale flesh won't heat beneath his touch.

Deidara's inspection moves slowly upward with purpose, feeling the hollow beneath the leaf's last rib, the muscle where arm meets chest, the taunt skin of his rounded shoulder. The blue-eyed boy stops there, tracing a pattern Itachi does not need to see to know.

"I wish I could have seen you, un," the artist murmurs, "as an ANBU." The spiraled black tattoo looks sickly on a field of such alabaster skin. Deidara wishes the wry smile on his face wasn't invisible, but Itachi does not even turn to look at him, so perhaps it does not matter. "Is that why you did it, un?" He cannot convince his fingers to stop running endlessly over inked flesh. "I understand that."

He pulls away at last, to seize the dark-haired boy's hand. Itachi tenses as if trapped, and his fingers are stiff when they brush the artist's middle. Deidara lifts his own shirt gently, guides the leaf ninja's touch over warm peach skin.

The difference is almost imperceptible, but Itachi finds it immediately—the barest rise from the firm level muscle, the unnatural smoothness. His hands deftly trace Deidara's tattoo. The artist does not fail to notice interest lighting those abyss eyes, nor can he ignore the pleasant and unpleasant feeling of his sensitive skin prickling under the Uchiha's lacquered nails.

"What is it?" the dark-eyed man queries. He can feel its outline, but cannot name the shape. It is a single thick line, tapering to a point somewhere beneath the edge of Deidara's pants. The top is vaguely rounded; the sides are plagued by indentations.

"A grave marker. Iwagakure's Hunters are tattooed with grave markers," Itachi must be able to hear the smile in his voice, "so that we will never forget what lies ahead of us."

The Uchiha does not draw his hand back; Deidara is not sure if he enjoys the mindless circles and the friction of cold fingers that numb the hollow beside his hip. It feels like dying, freezing slowly. The sculptor waits for the promised warmth and bliss of icy deaths—Itachi shifts (not even a centimeter) closer. The air, seeped in saffron sunlight, stays still and tepid. Goosebumps have risen on the dark-haired boy's arms, over the blond's waist.

"What does _your_ symbol mean, un?" he asks at last, blue chasing the tapered swirl of black.

"A flame," Itachi's voice is distant (Deidara wonders how much effort it would take to approach, and decides it might not be worth it.) "Konoha's Hunters are marked with fire, so we will never forget what lies behind us."

"Who are we, un?" Itachi stills, listens to the echo of the question until there is nothing to hear, until the words are gone as if they had never existed. Deidara smiles up at him, more patient than he has ever been before. "I was seventeen years old three days ago. I killed a man ten minutes after five in the morning, three days ago, un. I killed a man _ten minutes_ after I was born." Black bangs whisper across the tips of his fingers.

"I feel trapped," the artist murmurs, drawing closer to the younger boy's side. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore, un." His free hand runs the length of his scarred hitai-ate.

"There are marks that say I am a murderer without a name, without a place, un. But…" He stares at the black tendril of ink-fire on Itachi's skin until it seems to leap and consume him. "There are traces that cannot be erased. There are still stains and memories."

"We cannot go forward," the Uchiha offers, bringing a hand to his marred left shoulder, cold fingers meeting warm over a flame he can never douse.

"And there is no going back, un."

Itachi's touch ghosts over the grave marker that looms before them; Deidara's hand presses kisses over the flame that has burnt the dark-eyed boy to nothing.

Itachi is cold ash; Deidara is aimless wind—they are scattering slowly into oblivion: sky-blue, sky-black, lingering ghosts of humanity.

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Author's Notes: Wow, it's been a while. And yeah... ItaDei. At first, I couldn't understand this pairing at all. But it's been sneaking up on me. Something about how they're externally opposite but fairly similar on the inside. Itachi always struck me as a character who was completely disillusioned. Not emotionless, just young and tragically wise. And the Deidara I (aim to) write is really similar to that. He acts childish and foolish because he doesn't want to accept the disenchantment that's been forced on him. La la la, shinobi have shitty, meaningless lives. XD Anyway, I just thinking about Itachi's tattoo and how you can rid yourself of all the other marks, but the most important traces of who you were can't be scrubbed away... And oh yeah, I don't think Deidara was really on a Hunter-nin force, I just needed it to be that way for this. And I don't know what (if anything) Iwagakure marks their hunters with. 

Review Reponses:  
**Smallpox Plum:** I'm glad you liked the last chapter. I thought it was too short, but you totally picked up on all the subtle hints. I'm so glad. This one definitely wasn't as subtle, or as pleasant, but I think it has its own merits. I always feel so angsty when I think about Akatsuki. And especially when I think Itachi. He's so young! Ah, it's tragic. Anyway, thanks tons for your review. I hope you haven't forgotten about this story in my long absense! T.T  
**ione-girl**: Hee hee, I'm glad you liked it. I feel like all the Akatsuki boys could have had really normal lives (Okay, maybe not Zetsu and Kisame, but you know...) I can't help but wonder if they wouldn't have been happier just being normal people, but at the same time, that's impossible because of the way they raised or the powers they have. And seeing little Deidara!babies would make me melt inside. I liked your story, and I don't think I'm a great author at all. Thanks for reviewing!  
**kaja1234: **Thanks so much for reviewing. I'm glad you like my random little stories, and yeah, SasoDei! (I hope I didn't like kill you with this ItaDei-ness here...) T.T  
**the leviathan:** I really can not spell leviathan for crap. It took me like three tries to get it right. (Man I'm so dumb!) Anyway, I'm glad you liked the last one. Deidara strikes me a lot as a character who is happy on the outside and totally bitter on the inside. Thanks for reviewing!  
**Citca-kun**: Hee hee, I'm glad you liked it. I was worrying that it might be too light and unserious, but it seems like most people were okay with it. I hope you liked this chapter too, and thank you for reviewing!  
**Akatsuki210:** I'm sorryyyy! I'm sorry I wrote ItaDei, especially since you only like SasoDei... v.v But I'm glad you liked the other chapters, and I hope this chapter hasn't made you hate me. T.T But you're totally right. I think that Deidara sometimes regrets making the choices he's made, but I also know that he couldn't have been happy if he wasn't free to practice his art... And Sasori is love so, XD! When I wrote the chapter I didn't have a real woman in mind, I just assumed Deidara had imagined some random girl... But maybe there was a real woman! OO  
**tidAL rabbiT:** I can't really said I've read any happy SasoDei either. There's always some angst involved. Maybe I should try writing some non-angst, just to see if it possible... And sorry I didn't write about Tobi. I just got bitch-slapped with inspiration last night (at 3 AM) and had to write about Itachi. Thanks for reviewing so faithfully! (I hope this chapter wasn't too disappointing after such a long wait..)


	19. Hyacinth

Hyacinth  
A Microfic by Sarehptar  
_Theme Song: Amsterdam (Coldplay)  
_**Warnings: Subtle(?) Shounen-ai **

_My star is fading._

* * *

He breathes as he lies beside me in the dark, a jarring, uneven sound. He defies expectations unconscious, but to tell him so would only elicit a smile. He delights in being as incomprehensible, as incorrigible as possible.

He breathes again, no rhyme or rhythm to it. Sometimes his exhalations come in ragged gasps—like he is having a nightmare, except that I know he is not. He is not that weak; he pretends to be. Sometimes his inhaling is soft as a sigh, slow—as if his chest , rising and falling barely enough to count, feels all the weight of his sins.

In this thick darkness that seems to linger on both of our pale hands like oil or blood, he could be anyone. He could be any boy, tucked neat beneath his blankets. He could be any noble's son, any beggar's beloved child. His scarred headband is gone; our black-scarlet cloaks perch like ravens on the backs of broken chairs somewhere across the room. If strangers were watching him now, they could see him as just another man.

I can not.

His golden hair spills freely across his pillow and mine, in reach of fingers that refuse to cross the distance. That those delicate strands play so perfectly into my space is no accident. Deidara does not make mistakes around me. This spun-gold spiderweb on the white cotton of my sheets is a form of invitation. I leave it unanswered.

He is my partner, but the word doesn't mean anything to me anymore. Deidara cannot be to me just one word. He is the person I hate most: a fool, a weakling, a glass sculpture with a thousand cracks. He is undeserving, unpleasant, and beautiful—aesthetically so; it does not take an artist to value his eyes, the way his eyelashes follow almond rims without flaw, the way his irises are ringed in navy. It does not take a love of detail to admire the unmarred skin, the clean and singular threads of flaxen hair. If Deidara were a puppet, I would treasure him.

He breathes again.

The night is moonless; stars and the sourceless glow that keeps the air as gray as steel poorly light the windows. It is enough that I can watch dust dance to fall on him, spiraling like smoke away from his half-open mouth as he gasps. I count each of his breaths, in and out. I am counting down.

The dust settles undisturbed on his cheeks, on the tiny hairs along his jaw that are too blond to be seen. Like a flighty bird, he has always danced around me, desperate for an approval I would never give. I can see it in his eagerness, in his violence, in his words. At first I thought it was weak necessity, thought he could not stand without some words of praise—but Deidara is not that type of human being. He does not need my respect, he does not need our arguments, our partnership, or the lie of humility he adds to my name. He doesn't give a damn what I think, pretend as he might. Chasing my approval… it's a game to him, gives him a reason to do what he would do without a reason, to continue to be Sei, the nameless flame of destruction. It gives him a reason, false reason, to smile when he wakes beside me.

I cannot stop counting his breaths now that I have started—in the poignant darkness, my silent ministrations seem to be the only thing keeping him alive. To stop now would be to�pretend his breath away, to still his form forever, like the hundreds of others I have stilled.

_Ninety-nine… Ninety-eight…_

The blanket he has tangled himself in is thick wool, too hot for this tepid night. He does not seem to mind. The air is mausoleum-thick, leeching from the cracked white-wash walls a scent of disinterest and lead. A clock ticks somewhere, but it cannot hope to keep time with me.

_Eighty-seven… Eighty-six…_

It is the silence that I love, this punctured, broken sound that is as familiar to me as the light of the moon, as the rust-brown water stain on the ceiling above my head. I do not sleep. But I lie wordlessly beside him because he must—he is a living human being. He sleeps, and he breathes a heavy sigh.

_Seventy-five… Seventy-four…_

There are other things about him that only I can see, that I see while he sleeps, trusting me to guard without ever asking. I can see his veins, running though his wrists, unforgivably thin wrists. I can see his fingers splayed like shuriken across the mattress. His nails—rebelliously unpainted—are white above the quick as he digs his hands furiously into the sheets.

He doesn't have nightmares.

_Sixty-three… sixty-two…_

I can almost see the blood beat through him, steady or unsteady as everything else. I can almost hear a monotone heart beat… No, it is the clock keeping that time which means nothing to me and the world to Deidara. Seconds, hours, years sit on his chest that rises and falls unsurely. On me there is no such hindrance, such danger. He breathes, a beautiful desperate sound, and I do not.

_Fifty-one… Fifty…_

It is not lightening; the morning as far off in this moment as the horizon, and the barren room seems as sterile as the tools I use to shear flesh from bone. A moth, brown-winged and unassuming, clings to wall above, at right-angles to the moonlight. Deidara moves to throw off his stifling blanket with a mewl he would never make on waking.

_Forty-nine… forty-eight…_

My count of his breathing rolls mercilessly down, and suddenly panic burns through what is left of me. I'm going to run out of numbers. He's going to run out of breath.

The mission seems distant now; that he failed again is as of much important to me as the moth, fluttering desperately and endlessly against the ceiling.

_Thirty-eight… Thirty-seven…_

Deidara is a fool, a genius, and a liability. He is a weakness, delicate as any damsel, unbreakable as any ninja. And at this moment, he is living—which means that he is dying.

Each uneven breath he takes is adding seconds to his age, minutes to his human body, to the body that is already beginning to rot around him. It pierces me with a chill, sharp and permanent, but my pale skin does not rise in goosebumps. He is dying. Like every other man, he will grow, he will age, he will fade.

_Twenty-six… Twenty-five…_

One day I will lie down to watch the moon through dusty windows, and I will not hear his breath. The sun will rise without his false, bright grin to mirror it. I will take another victim, make another puppet; I will argue to myself in silence about what art is, and what it is becoming… I will live forever.

_Fourteen… Thirteen…_

Thirteen breaths until zero. And I know he won't stop there but it seems so soon; the end of his achingly short life might as well be thirteen breaths from now.

It is too much to think, too much to fear. My face says nothing about the pounding of my heart. I will be alone again.

Of its own accord, my impossibly strong hand finds his fragile wrist. I could crush him with only the barest pressure—time does not even need that to wring the life from him.

_Ten… Nine…_

His breath evens quickly, and I know that he is awake. He does not move, does not question my hold. He does not shift even an inch when I rise to look into his sharp, open eyes. Patiently, he allows my examination as if he has always allowed it. He breathes—lives—quiet in the dark.

_Eight… Seven…_

Those cobalt irises ringed in navy are still as deep, still inconceivably alive and full of steel moon shine. His unhindered hair tangles in my fingers though I never meant to touch him.

_Six… Five…_

For a moment, single moment, I can understand him and all the evanescent allure of his art. He is beautiful and he is fleeting.

_Four… Three…_

He is the explosions that govern his heart; he is living in a warmth and glory I cannot understand, in the vacuum made by fire and clay and wind. He is fading to embers before my eyes and something about this is thrilling in a horrifying way because nothing about Deidara ever lasts. Deidara makes the eyeblink of mortality, of living and dying, an art form.

I would not make him a puppet even if it meant saving him from time.

_Two…_

I lean and catch his last breath on my lips without a word. His sigh runs free and warm inside me.

If only for this moment, let me pretend to be smoke and light.

If only for this moment, let me pretend he doesn't need this breath to be.

* * *

One.

* * *

  
**Author's Note:** Wow, it's been a long time. And I have to admit, I would not have updated this collection again if not for an ironic twist of fate that occured tonight. While I looking for the hand-written copy of a recent chapter for my Kingdom Hearts fanfiction, I stumbled across a much older notebook, where I found this complete one-shot. I couldn't believe it--I didn't even remember writing it. Apparently I just... forgot to post it? Anyway, here is it. I wrote it more than a year ago, so I can see a lot of problems with it... But better an old piece than no update at all, right? And this is the only thing I've written from Sasori's point of view, so I guess that's kind of interesting?

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed!


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